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PRESENTED liY 



- " CuS-l^t &<- Tci^~e^*~ 



THE COMPLETE 



WORKS OF ROBERT BURNS: 



CONTAINING HLS 



|}0tms, Songs, ai& timxsymm. 



ILLUSTRATED J?Y 



WflLBARTLETT, T. ALLOM, AND OTHER ARTISTS. 



A NEW LIEE OE THE POET, 

AND 

j8ottas, (Krftftal and aStograpfiical. 
BY ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. 



VIRTUE & CO., CITY ROAD AND IVY LANE, LONDON. 



^ 



«!* 



Gift 






^ 



TABLE OF CONTENTS. 



The Life of Robert Burns 

Preface to the Kilmarnock Edition of 1786 

Dedication to the Edinburgh Edition of 1787 



xllx 
, li 



POEMS. 



Winter. A Dirge . 

The Death and dying Words of Poor Mailie 
Poor Mailie's Elegy- 
First Epistle to Davie, a brother Poet 
Second .... 
Address to the Deil 
The auld Farmer's New-year Morning Salutation 

to his auld Mare Maggie 
To a Haggis .... 

A Prayer under the pressure of violent Anguish 
A Prayer in the prospect of Death 
Stanzas on the same occasion 
A Winter Night 
Remorse. A Fragment 
The Jolly Beggars. A Cantata. . 
Death and Dr. Hornbook. A True Story 
The Twa Herds ; or, the Holy Tulzie 
Holy Willie's Prayer 
Epitaph on Holy Willie 
The Inventory ; in answer to a mandate by the 

surveyor of taxes 
The Holy Fair 
The Ordination 

The Calf ... 

To James Smith 
The Vision 
Halloween 

Man was made to Mourn. A Dirge . 
Tc Ruin 
To John Gomdie of Kilmarnock, on the publica 

tion of his Essays . 
To J. Lapraik, an old Scottish Bard. First 

Epistle . 
To J. Lapraik. Second Epistle 
To J. Lapraik. Third Epistle 
To William Simpson, Ochiltree 
Address to an illegitimate Child 
Nature's Law. A Poem humbly inscribed to 

G. H. Esq. 
To the Rev. John M'Math . 
To a Mouse 
Scotch Drink 
The Author's earnest Cry andPrayer to the Scotch 

Representatives of the House of Commons . 
Address' to the unco Guid, or the rigidly Rightoous 
Tam Samson's Elegy 



Pa^e. 

2 
3 

4 

& 



Lament, occasioned by the unfortunate issue of 
a Friend's Amour 

Despondency. An Ode 

The Cotter's Saturday Night 

The first Psalm 

The first six Verses of the ninetieth Psalm 

To a Mountain Daisy. 

Epistle to a young Friend 

To a Louse, on seeing one on a Lady's Bonnet 
at Church . . 

Epistle to J. Rankine, enclosing some Poems 

On a Scotch Bard, gone to the West Indies 

The Farewell 

Written on the blank leaf of my Poems, pre- 
sented to an old Sweetheart then married 

A Dedication to Gavin Hamilton, Esq. 

Elegy on the Death of Robert Ruisseaux 

Letter to James Tennant of Glenconner 

On the Birth of a posthumous Child . 

To Miss Cruikshank 

Willie Chalmers 

Verses left in the room where he slept 

To Gavin Hamilton, Esq., recommending a boy 

To Mr. M'Adam, of Craigen-gillan 

Answer to a Poetical Epistle sent to the Author 
by a Tailor . . 

To J. Rankine. "lama keeper of the law." 

Lines written on a Bank-note 

A Dream .... 

A Bard's Epitaph 

The Twa Dogs. A Tale. 

Lines on meeting with Lord Daer 

Address to Edinburgh . 

Epistle to Major Logan 

The Brigs of Ayr 

On the Death of Robert Dundas, Esq., of Amis- 
ton, late Lord President of the Court of 
Session 

On reading in a Newspaper the Death of John 
M'Leod, Esq. . 

To Miss Logan, with Beattie's Poems 

The American War. A Fragment 

The Dean of Faculty. A new Ballad 

To a Lady, with a Present of a Pair of Drinking 
glasses 

Tn Clarinda 



45 

46 
47 
49 
50 



£3 

54 



55 

56 



57 



60 
61 



7? 



10 



Pag* 

Verses written under the For trait of the Poet 

Fergusson . . . .74 

Prologue spoken by Mr. Woods, on his Benefit- 
night, Monday, April 16, 1787 . • — 
Sketch. A Character . . . — 
To Mr. Scott, of Wauchope . . 75 
Epistle to William Creech . . — 
The humble Petition of Bruar-Water, to the 

noble Duke of Athole . . 76 

On scaring some Water-fowl in Loch Turk _ . 77 
Written with a pencil, over the chimney-piece, 
in the parlour of the Inn at Kenmure, Tay- 
mouth . . . .78 

Written with a pencil standing by the Fall of 

Fyers, near Loch Ness . . — 

To Mr. William Tytler, with the present of the 

Bard's picture . . . — 

Written in Friars r Carse Hermitage, on the 

banks of Nith, 'June, 1780. First Copy 79 

The same. December, 1788. Second Copy . — 
To Captain Riddel, of Glenriddel. Extempore 

lines on returning a Newspaper . . 80 

A Mother's Lament for the Death of her Son . — 
Firs>t Epistle to Robert Graham, Esq., of Fintry 81 
On the Death of Sir James Hunter Blair . 82 

Epistle to Hugh Parker . . . — 

Lines, intended to be written under a Noblo 

Earl's Picture . . .83 

Elegy on the Year 1788. A Sketch . . — 

Address to the Toothache . . 84 

Ode. Sacred to the memory of Mrs. Oswald, of 

Auchencruive . . . — 

Fragment inscribed to the Right Hon. C. J. Fox 85 
On seeing a wounded Hare limp by me, which a 

Fellow had just shot . . — 

To Dr. Blacklock. In answer to a Letter 86 

Delia. An Ode . . . . — 

To John M'Murdo, Esq. . . 87 

Prologue, spoken at the Theatre, Dumfries, 1st 

January, 1790 . . . — 

Scots Prologue, for Mr. Sutherland's Benefit- 
night, Dumfries . . . — 
Sketch. New-year's Day. To Mrs. Dunlop . 88 
To a Gentleman who had sent him a Newspaper, 

and offered to continue it free of expense . 89 
The Kirk's Alarm. A Satire. First Version — 

The Kirk's Alarm. A Ballad. Second Version 90 
Peg Nicholson . . .92 

On Captain Matthew Henderson, a gentleman 
who held the patent for his honours imme- 
diately from Almighty God . . — 
The Five Carlins. A Scots Ballad. . 94 
The Laddies by the Banks o' Nith . . 95 
Epistle to Robert Graham, Esq., of Fintry, on 
the close of the disputed Election between 
Sir James Johnstone, and Captain Miller, 
for the Dumfries district of Boroughs . — 
On Captain Grose's Perigination through Scot- 



Page 
land, collecting the Antiquities of that kin" 
dom . . . .97 

Written in a wrapper, enclosing a letter to Cap- 
tain Grose . . . . — 
Tam o'Shanter. A Tale . 98 
Address of Beelzebub to the President of the 

Highland Society . . 10c 

To John Taylor .... 101 
Lament of Mary Queen of Scots, on the approach 

of Spring .... — - 
The Whistle ... .102 

Eiegy on Miss Burnet of Monboddo . 103 

Lament for James, Earl of Glencairn . 104 

Lines sent to Sir John Whitefoord, Bart., of 

Whitefoord, with the foregoing Poem. 105 

Address to the Shade of Thomson, on crowning 

his Bust at Ednam with bays . 

To Robert Graham, Esq., of P'intry . . — - 

To Robert Graham, Esq., of Fintry, on receiving 
a favour . . . . 106 

A Vision . . . . 

To John Maxwell, of Terraughty, en his birthday 107 
The Rights of Woman, an occasional Address 
spoken bv Miss Fontenelle, on her benefit- 
night, Nov. 26, 1792 . . 

Monody on a Lady famed for her caprice . 108 

Epistle from Esopus to Maria , . 101) 

Poem on Pastoral Poetry . . .110 

Sonnet, written on the 25th January, 1793, the 
birthday of the Author, on hearing a thrr»sh 
sing in a morning walk . . — - 

Sonnet on the death of Robert Riddel, Esq., of 
Glenriddel, April, 1794 . . Ill 

Impromptu on Mrs. Riddel's birthday . 

Liberty. A Fragment . . . — — 

Verses to a young Lady . . . 

The Vowels. A Tale . . . 112 

Verses to John Rankine . . . 

On Sensibility. To my dear and much-hon- 
oured friend, Mrs. Dunlop, of Dunlop . 

Lines sent to a Gentleman whom he had of- 
fended . . . .113 
Address spoken by Miss Fontenelle on her 

Benefit-night . . . 

On seeing Miss Fontenelle in a favourite cha- 
racter . . . .114 

ToChloris .... 

Poetical Inscription for an Altar to Independ- 
ence .... 

The Heron Ballads. Ballad First . ■— 

The Heron Ballads. Ballad Second . .115 

The Heron Ballads. Ballad Third . 116 

Poem addressed to Mr. Mitchell, Collector of 

Excise, Dumfries, 1796 . . 117 

To Miss Jessy Lewars, Dumfries, with Johnson's 

Musical Museum . . . 118 

Poem on Life, addressed to Colonel de Peystcr, 
Dumfries, 1796 . — 



EPITAPHS, EPIGRAMS, FRAGMENTS, &c. 



On the Author's Father 

On R. A., Esq. 

On a Friend 

For Gavin Hamilton 

On wee Johnny . . , 

On John Dove, Innkeeper, Mauchline 

On a Wag in Mauchline 

On i celebrated ruling Eider 

On a noisy Polemic 



Pai<c. 
119 



On Miss Jean Scott 

On a henpecked Country Squire 

On the same . . , 

On the same . ., , 

The Highland Welcome 

On William Smellin 

Written on a window of the Inn at Canon 

The Book-worms . • 

Lines on Stirling 



120 



CONTENTS. 



11 



The Reproof 

The Reply .... 

Lines written under the picture of the celebrated 
Miss Burns . < . 

Extempore in the Court of Session 

The henpecked Husband 

Written at Inverary 

On Elphinston's Translation of Martial's Epi- 
grams 

Inscription on the Head-stone of Fergusson 

On a Schoolmaster 

A Grace before Dinner . . „ 

A Grace before Meat 

On Wat '.. . 

On Captain Francis Grose . 

Impromptu to Miss Ainslie 

The Kirk of Lamington . " . 

The League and Covenant 

Written on a pane of glass in the Inn at Moffat 

Spoken on being appointed to the Excise 

Lines on Mrs. Kemble . 

To M*. Syme 

To Mr. Syme, with a present of a dozen of 
porter 

A Grace . . 

Inscription on a goblet 

The Invitation 

The Creed of Poverty 

Written in a Lady's pocket-book 

The Parson's Looks 

The Toad-eater 

On Robert Riddel 

The Toast 

On a Person nicknamed The Marquis 

Lines written on a window 



Page. 

122 



Lines written on a window of the Globe Tavern, 

Dumfries . 
The Selkirk Grace 

To Dr. Maxwell, on Jessie Staig s Recovery 
Epitaph 

Epitaph on William Nicol 
On the Death of a Lapdog, named Echo 
On a noted Coxcomb 

On seeing the beautiful Seat of Lord Galloway 
On the same 

On the same . . - 

To the same, on the author being threatened 

with his resentment 
On a Country Laird 
On John Bushby . 
The true loyal Natives . 
On a Suicide 

Extempore, pinned on a Lady's coach 
Lines to John Rankine 
Jessy Lewars . 
The Toast 

On Miss Jessy Lewars . 
On the recovery of Jessy Lewars 
Tam the Chapman 

" Here's a bottle and an honest friend" 
" Tho' fickle fortune has deceived me" 
To John Kennedy 
To the same 

" There's naethin' like the honest nappy" 
On the blank leaf of a work by Hannah More, 

presented by Mrs. C. 
To the Men and Brethren of the Masonic Lodgi 

at Tarbolton . 
Impromptu .... 
Prayer for Adam Armour 



Pago 
12G 
127 



131 



SONGS AND BALLADS. 



Pagre. 
Handsome Nell . . .132 

Luckless Fortune .... 

" I dream'd I lay where flowers were springing" 

Tibbie, I hae seen the day . . 133 

"My father was a farmer upon the Carrick 

border" .... 

John Barleycorn. A Ballad 

The Rigs o' Barley 

Montgomery's Peggy . , 

The Mauchline Lady . ... 

The Highland Lassie 

Peggy .... 

The rantin' Dog the Daddie o't 

" My heart was ance as blithe and free" 

My Nannie O . 

A Fragment. " One night as I did wander" 

Bonnie Peggy Alison 

Green grow the Rashes, O . 

My Jean . 

Robin 



' Her flowing locks, the raven's wing" 
" leave novels, ye Mauchline belles" 
Young Peggy 
The Cure for all Care . 
Eliza .... 
The Sons of Old Killie . 
And maun I still on Menie doat 
The Farewell to the Brethren of St. James' 

Lodge, Tarbolton 
On Cessnock Banks 
Mary .... 
The Lass of Ballochmyle 
"The gloomy night is gathering fast" 
* whar did ye get that hauver meal bannock ? 



133 



139 



1-10 



PagQ 

The Joyful Widower . . .14.0 

" O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad" . 

" I am my mammy's ae bairn " . . 146 

The Birks of Aberfeldy . . 

Macpherson's Farewell . . . 147 

Braw, braw Lads of Galla Water . 

" Stay, my charmer, can you leave me ? 

Strathallan's Lament 

My Hoggie . . . .148 

HerDaddie forbad, her Minnie forbad 

Up in the Morning early 

The young Highland Rover 

Hey the dusty Miller . . . \49 

Duncan Davison 

Theniel Menzies' bonnie Mary 

The Banks of the Devon . . 150 

Weary fa' you, Duncan Gray . . 

The Ploughman . 

Landlady, count the La-win . . .157 

" Raving winds around her blowing" 

" How long and dreary is the night" . - — 

Musing on the roaring Ocean . 152 

Blithe, blithe and merry was she . . ■ 

The blude red Rose at Yule may blaw . - — 

O'er the Water to Charlie . . . 153 

A Rosebud by my early walk . . 

Rattlin', roarin' Willie . . . 

Where braving angry Winter's Storms . lo4 

Tibbie Dunbar . . . — 

Bonnie Castle Gordon . . . — ~ 

My Harry was a gallant gay . 1 55 

The Tailor fell through the" bed, thimbles an' a 5 

Ay waukin O ! . . 

Beware o' bonnie Ann . . lotf 



12 



The Gardener wi' his paidie 

Blooming Nelly 

The day returns, my bosom burns 

My Love she 's but a lassie yet 

Jaime, come try me 

Go fetch to me a Pint o' Wine 

The Lazy Mist 

O mount and go 

Of a' the airta the wind can blaw 

Whistle o'er the lave o't 

O were I on Parnassus' Hill 

" There's a youth in this city" 

My heart 's in the Highlands 

John Anderson, my Jo . 

Awa, Whigs, awa . 

Pa' the Ewes to the Knowes 

Merry hae I been teethin' a heckle 

The Braes o' Bailochmyle 

To Mary in Heaven 

Eppie Adair 

The Battle of Sherriff-muir . 

Young Jockey was the blithest lad 

Willie brew'd a peck o' maut 
The braes o' KilHecrankie, 

1 gacd a waefu' gate yestreen 
The Banks of Nith 
Tarn Glen 

Frae the friends and land T love . 
Craigie-burn Wood 
Cock up your Beaver 

meikle thinks my luve o' my beauty 
Gudewife, count the Lawin 
There '11 never be peace till Jamie comes hame 
The bonnie lad that's far awa 

1 do confess thou art sae fair 

Yon wild mossy mountains sae lofty and wide 

It is na, Jean, thy bonnie face 

When I think on the happy days 

Whan I sleep I dream . 

" I murder hate by field or flood" 

O gude ale comes and gude ale goes 

Robin share in hairst 

Bonnie Peg 

Gudeen to you, Kimmer 

All, Chloris, since it may na be 

Eppie M 'Nab 

Wha is that at my bower-door 

What can a young lassie do wi' an auld man 

Bonnie wee thing, cannie wee tiling 

The tither morn when I forlorn 

Ae fond kiss, and then we sever . 

Lovely Davics 

The weary Pund o' Tow 

Naebody 

An for ane and twenty Tarn 

O Kenmurc's on and awa, Willie 

The C-llier Laddie 

Nithsdak's Welcome Hame . 

As I was a-wand'ring ac Midsummer e'enin 

Bessy and her Spinning-wheel 

The Posie 

The Country Lass 

Turn again, thou fair Eliza 

oites by name 
Ye flowery banks o' bonnie Doon 
Ye bankfl and braes o' bonnie Doon 
Willie Y. 

Lady Mary Ann 

parcel of rogues in a 
The Carle of Kelly burn brnea 

J s ta'en the parting kiss 

'Julie 

. '.; Lament 
. 

1 Vfton 
Bell 

i thro , ra' thro' . 



CONTENTS. 



P ll6 
157 
158 
159 
160 

161 

162 

163 
164 

165 

166 

167 



170 

171 

172 

173 
174 

175 

176 



177 

178 



179 

180 
181 

182 



The deuks dang o'er my Daddie 
She's fair and fause 
The Deil cam' fiddling thro' the town 
The lovely Lass of Inverness 

my luve 's like a red, red rose . 
Louis, what reck I by thee . 
Had I the wyte she bade me 
Coming through the rye 
Young Jamie, pride of a' the plain 
Out over the Forth I look to the north 
The Lass of Ecclefechan 
The Cooper o' Cuddie 
For the sake of somebody 

1 coft a stane o' haslock woo 
The lass that made the bed for me 
Sae far awa . . 
I'll ay ca' in by yon town 
O wat ye wha's in yon town . 
O May, thy morn 
Lovely Polly Stewart 
Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie . 
Anna, thy charms my bosom fire 
Cassilis' Banks 
To thee, lov'd Nith 
Bannocks o' Barley 
Hee balou! my sweet wee Donald 
Wae is my heart, and the tear's in my 
Here 's his health in water . 
My Peggy's face, my Peggy's form 
Gloomy December 

My lady's gown, there 's gairs upon 't 
Amang the trees, where humming bees 
The gowden locks of Anna 
My ain kind dearie, O 
Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary 
She is a winsome wee thing 
Bonny Lesley 
Highland Mary 
Auld Rob Morris . 

Duncan Gray 

O poortith cauld, and restless love 
Galla Water 
Lord Gregory 
Mary Morison 

Wandering Willie. First Version 
Wandering Willie. Last Version 
Oh, open the door to me, oh! 
Jessie . . . 

The poor and honest sodger 
Meg o' the Mill 
Blithe hae I been on yon hill 
Logan Water 

" O were my love yon lilac fair" 
Bonnie Jean 
Phillis the fair 

Had I a cave on some wild distant shore 
By Allan stream 

O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad 
Adown winding Nith I did wander 
Come, let me take thee to my breast 
Daintie Davie 
Scots wha hae wi* Wallace bled. First Version 
Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled. Second Version 
Behold the hour, the boat arrives 

Thou hast left me ever, Jamie 

Auld lang syne . . 

" Where are the joys I have met in the morning 

" Deluded swain the pleasure" 

Nancy .... 

Husband, husband, cease your strife . 

Wilt thou be my dearie ? 

But lately seen in gladsome green _ . 

" Could augnt of song declare my pains" 

Here 's to thy health, my bonnie lass . , 

It was a' for our rightfu' king 

O steer her up and haud her gaun 

O ay my wife she dang me 

O wort thou in the cauld blast 



Page 
184 



CO NT K NTS. 



13 



The banks of Cree 

On the seas and far away 

Ca' the Yowes to the Knowes 

Sae flaxen were her ringlets 

O saw ye my dear, my Phely ? 

How lang and dreary is the night 

Let not woman e'er complain 

The Lover's Morning Salute to his Mistress 

My Chloris, mark how green the groves 

Youthful Chloe, charming Chloe 

Lassie wi' the lint-white locks 

Farewell, thou stream, that winding flows 

O Philly, happy be the day 

Contented wi' little and cantie wi' mair 

Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy 

My Nannie 's awa 

O wha is she that lo'es me . 

Caledonia 

O lay thy loof in mine lass . 

The Fete Champetre 

Here 's a health to them that's awa 

For a' that, and a' that 

Craigieburn Wood 

O lassie, art thou sleeping yet 



Page. 
211 



215 
216 

. 217 
. 218 
. 219 

. 220 



B*ge 
O tell na me o wind and rain . 22<.» 

The Dumfries Volunteers 22i 

Address to the Wood-lark ' . . — 

On Chloris being ill . . 222 

Their groves o' sweet myrtle let foreign lands 

reckon .... 

'Twas na her bonnie blue een was my rui . 

How cruel are the Parents . . 223 

Mark yonder pomp of costly fashion . . 

O this is no my ain lassie . , 

New Spring has clad the grove in green . 224 

O bonnie was yon rosy brier • . 

Forlorn my love, no comfort near . . 

Last May a braw wooer cam down the lang glen 225 
Chloris ..... — — 
The Highland Widow's Lament . 220 

To General Dumourier . — - 

Peg-a-Ramsey . 

There was a bonnie lass . , . 227 

O Mally's meek, Mally's sweet . ■ — 

Hey for a lass wi' a tocher . . 

Jessy. " Here 's a health to ane I lo'e dear" 

Fairest Maid on Devon banks . 228 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



1781. 

Dec. 27. To William Bumess. His health a little better, but tired of life. The Revelations 



F ^!k 



Jan. 15. 
June 21. 

n. d. 

n. d. 

n. d. 

n. d. 

n. d. 



1783. 

To Mr. John Murdoch. His present studies and temper of mind 

To Mr. James Bumess. His father's illness, and sad state of the country 

To Miss E. Love . . 

To Miss E. Love . . . 

To Miss E. Love . . , 

To Miss E. On her refusal of his hand . 

To Robert Riddel, Esq. Observations on poetry and human life 



229 
2S0 
281 



233 



1784. 

Feb. 17. To Mr. James Bumess. On the death of his father 
Aug. To Mr. James Bumess. Account of the Buchanites 
n. d. To Miss . With a book 



, 2-38 
2-30 



Feb. 17. 
March 3. 
March 20. 
April 3. 
April 20. 

n. d. 
May 16 
June 12. 

». d. 
July 9. 

n. d. 
Jnly 17. 
July 30. 

~n. d. 

n. d. 
Aug. 
Sept. 26. 
Nov. 18. 

n. d. 

n.d. 
Nov. 18. 



1786. 

To Mr. John Richmond. His progress in poetic composition 
To Mr. John Kennedy. The Cotter's Saturday Night 
' m° Mr " Robert Muir - Enclosing his " Scotch Drink." 
To Mr. Aiken Enclosing a stanza on the blank leaf of a book by Hannah More 
lo Mr. John Kennedy. Enclosing "The Gowan." 

To Mon. James Smith/ His voyage to the West Indies . . . 

S° if* J? hl ^ Kenned y- His poems in the press. Subscriptions 
lo Mr. David Brice. Jean Armour's return,— printing his poems 
To Mr. Robert Aiken. Distress of mind . . . 

To Mr. John Richmond. Jean Armour 

m° JohnBallantyne, Esq. Aiken's coldness. His" marriage-lines destroved 
lo Mr. David Brice. Jean Armour. West Indies . 

To Mr. John Richmond. West Indies. The Armours 
To Mr. Robert Muir. Enclosing " The Calf." 
To Mrs. Dunlop. Thanks for her notice. Sir William Wallace 
lo Mr. John Kennedy. Jamaica 
To Mr. James Burness. His departure uncertain ' 
lo Miss Alexander. "The Lass of Ballochmyle." 

To Mrs. Stewart, of Stair and Afton. Enclosing some songs. Miss Alexander 
Proclamation in the name of the Muses 
To Mr. Robert Muir. Enclosing " Tarn Samson." His Edinburgh expedition 



. 240 



242 
' 243 

244 



247 



u 



n. d. 
Dec. 7. 
Dec. 13 
D^r. 20 
Dec. 27. 



To Dr. Mackenzie. Enclosing the verses on dining with Lord Daer 

To Gavin Hamilton, Esq. llising fame. Patronage . 

To John Ballantyne, Esq. His patrons and patronesses. The Lounger . 

To Mr. Robert Muir. A note of thanks. Talks of sketching the history of kifi hfe 

To Mr. William Chalmers. A humorous sally . 



Page 
248 



Jan. 

Jan. 7. 
Jan. 1-1. 
Jan. 
Jan. 15. 
Jan. 
Feb. 5. 
Feb. 15. 
Feb. 24. 
ft, d. 

n. d. 
Mar eli 21, 
March. 
March 22 
April 15. 

n. d. 
April 23. 
April 30. 
May 3. 

ft. d. 

n.d. 
May 3. 
May 13. 
May 17. 
June 1. 
June 11. 
June 18. 

n.d. 
June 28. 
June. 

n.d. 
June 30. 
July 7. 
July 23. 
July. 
Aug. 2. 
Aug. 23. 
Aug. 26. 
Aug. 28. 
Sep. 5. 
Sep. 17. 
Sep. 28. 

n. d. 
Oct. 20. 

Nov. 6. 

Nov. 23 

n. d. 

n. d. 
n. d. 
n. d. 

Nov. 21. 
Dec. 12. 
Dec. 10. 

Dec. 

Dec. 



1787. 

To the Earl of Eglinton. Thanks for his patronage . . 250 

To Gavin Hamilton, Esq. Love . . . . . . . 

To John Ballantyne, Esq. Mr. Miller's offer of a farm . . . . 

To John Ballantyne, Esq. Enclosing "The Banks o' Doon." First copy. , 25L 

To Mrs. Dunlop. Dr. Moore and Lord Eglinton. His situation in Edinburgh . 

To Dr. Moore. Acknowledgments for his notice ..... 252 

To the Rev. G. Lowrie. Reflections on his situation in life. Dr. Blacklock, Mackenzie 

To Dr. Moore, Miss Williams . . . . . . .253 

To John Ballantyne, Esq. His portrait engraving .... 

To the Earl of Glencairn. Enclosing " Lines intended to be written under a noble Earl's 

picture." ........ 254 

To the Earl of Buchan. In reply to a letter of advice .... — — 

To Mr. James Candlish. Still "the old man with his deeds." . . . 255 

To . On Fergusson's headstone ...... — — 

To Mrs. Dunlop. His prospects on leaving Edinburgh .... 256 

To Mrs. Dunlop. A letter of acknowledgment for the payment of the subscription . 

To Mr. Sibbald. Thanks for his notice in the magazine .... 257 

To Dr. Moore. Acknowledging the present of his View of Society . . . ■ — . 

To Mr. Dunlop. Reply to criticisms ...... 

To the Rev. Dr. Hugh Blair. On leaving Edinburgh. Thanks for his kindness . . 

To the Earl of Glencairn. On leaving Edinburgh . . . . 258 

To Mr. William Dunbar. Thanking him for the present of Spenser's poems . 

To Mr. James Johnson. Sending a song to the Scots Musical Museum . . 

To Mr. William Creech. His tour on the Border. Epistle hi verse to Creech . „ 259 

To Mr. Patison. Business ....... — • 

To Mr. W. Nicol. A ride described in broad Scotch ..... 

To Mr. James Smith. Unsettled in life. Jamaica .... 260 

To Mr. W. Nicol. Mr. Miller, Mr. Burnside. Bought a pocket Milton . . — 

To Mr. James Candlish. Seeking a copy of Lowe's poem of "Pompey's Ghost" . 

To Robert Ainslie, Esq. His tour . . . . . .261 

To Mr. W. Nicol. Auchtertyre . .... - — 

To Mr. William Cruikshank. Auchtertyre . . . . . .262 

To Mr. James Smith. An adventure ...... 

To Mr. John Richmond. His rambles . . .- . . . 263 

To Mr. Robert Ainslie. Sets high value on his friendship . . . 

To the same. Nithsdale and Edinburgh ..... 264 

To Dr. Moore. Account of his own life . 

To Mr. Robert Ainslie. A humorous letter . . . . . 269 

To Mr. Robert Muir. Stirling, Bannockburn . . . . . 

To Gavin Hamilton, Esq. Of Mr. Hamilton's own family . . . . 

To Mr. Walker. Bruar Water. The Athole family . . . .270 

To Mr. Gilbert Burns. Account of his Highland tour . . . .271 

To Miss Margaret Chalmers. Charlotte Hamilton. Skinner. Nithsdale . . 

To the same. Charlotte Hamilton, and " The Banks of the Devon." . . 272 

To James Hoy, Esq. Mr. Nicol. Johnson's Musical Museum . . . — 

To Rev. John Skinner. Thanking him for his poetic compliment . . . 

To James Hoy, Esq. Song by the Duke of Gordon . . . .273 

To Mr. Robert Ainslie. His friendship for him . . . . .274 

To the Earl of Glencairn. Requesting his aid in obtaining an Excise appointment . — 

lo James Dalrymple, Esq. Rhyme. Lord Glencairn . . . . 

To Charles Hay, Esq. Enclosing his poem on the death of the Lord President Dundas 275 

Jo Miss M— n. Compliments . . - 

To Miss Chalmers. Charlotte Hamilton . * 

To the same. His bruised limb. The Bible.' The Ocnel Fills ' . . 276 

To the tame. His motto— "I dare." His own worst enemy - • 

John Whitefoord. Thanks for his friendship. Of poets . 

To Mies Williams. Comments on her poem of the Slave Trade ' .277 

To Mr. Richard Brown. Recollections of early life. Clarinda ' . 278 

To Gavin Hamilton, Esq. Prayer for his health . . , .279 

To Miss Chalmers. Complimentary poems. Creech " — ■ 



1788. 

Jan. 21. To Mrs. Dunlop. Lowncss of spirits. Leaving Edinburgh 

To the same. Religion . 

'■ Rev. John Skinner. Tullochgorum. Skinner's Latin 

To Mr. Ricnard Brown. His arrival in Glasgow . 
fcYb. 17 To Mie. Rose, of Kilravock. Recollections of Kilravock 



.280 

. 281 



I (,36 




:... 



"'■• 



: /\ ' /inmJ-Pv^ 






I < 



5 1 I 
D 1 I 



ill) f\T 










__ - - 



CONTENTS. 



15 



Page 

Feb. 24. To Mr. Richard Brown. Friendship. The pleasures of the present . 282 

March 3. To Mr. William Cruikshank. Ellisland. Plans in life 

March 3. To Mr. Robert Ainslie. Ellisland. Edinburgh. Clarinda 

March 7. To Mr. Richard Brown. Idleness. Farming .... 

March 7. To Mr. Robert Muir. His offer for Ellisland. The close of life 

March 14. To Miss Chalmers. Taken Ellisland. Miss Kennedy .... 284 

March 17. To Mrs. Dunlop. Coila's robe ....... 

March 26. To Mr. Richard Brown. Apologies. On his way to Dumfries from Glasgow . 285 

March 31. To Mr. Robert Cleghorn. Poet and fame. The air of Captain O'Kean 

April 7. To Mr. William Dunbar. Foregoing poetry and wit for farming and business 

April 7. To Miss Chalmers. Miss Kennedy. Jean Armour .... 286 

n. d. To the same. Creech's rumoured bankruptcy . . . . , 

n. d. To the same. His entering the Excise .... 

April 28. To Mrs. Dunlop. Farming and the Excise. Thanks for the loan of Dryden and Tasso . 287 

April 28. To Mr. James Smith. Jocularity. Jean Armour 

May 3. To Professor Dugald Stewart. Enclosing some poetic trifles 

May 4. To Mrs. Dunlop. Dryden's Virgil. His preference of Dryden to Pope 

May 26. To Mr. Robert Ainslie. His marriage ..... 

May 27. To Mrs. Dunlop. On the treatment of servants . . . 289 

June 13. To the same. The merits of Mrs. Burns .... 

June 14. To Mr. Robert Ainslie. The warfare of life. Books. Religion . . .290 

June 23. To the same. Miers' profiles ..... 

June 30. To the same. Of the folly of talking of one's private affairs . . . 291 

July 18. To Mr. George Lockhart. The Miss Baillies. Bru.tr Water 

n. d. To Mr. Peter Hill. With the present of a cheese . . . .292 

n.d. To Robert Graham, Esq., of Fintry. The Excise . . . .293 

Aug. To Mr. William Cruikshank. Creech. Lines written in Friar's Carse Hermitage 
Aug. 2. To Mrs. Dunlop. Lines written at Friar's Carse. Graham of Fintry 
Aug. 10. To the same. Mrs. Burns. Of accomplished young ladies 
Aug. 16. To the same. Mrs. Miiier, of Dalswinton. ''The Life and Age of Man." 

Sept. 9. To Mr. Beugo. Ross and "The Fortunate Shepherdess." .... 296 

Sept. 16. To Miss Chalmers. Recollections Mrs. Burns. Poetry . 

Sept. 22.. To Mr. Morison. Urging expedition with his clock and other furniture for Ellisland . 297 

Sept. 27. To Mrs. Dunlop. Mr. Graham. Her criticisms ..... 298 

Oct. 1. To Mr. Peter Hill. Criticism on an "Address to Loch Lomond." . . . 

Nov. 8. To the Editor of the Star. Pleading for the line of the Stuarts . . . .299 

Nov. 13. To Mrs. Dunlop. The present of a heifer from the Dunlops . . 300 

Nov. 15. To Mr. James Johnson. Scots Musical Museum ..... 301 

Nov. 15. To Dr. Blacklock. Poetical progress. His marriage 

Dec. 17. To Mrs. Dunlop. Enclosing " Auld Lang Syne." .... 

Dec. . To Miss Davies. Enclosing the song of " Charming, lovely Davies." 

Dec. 22. To Mr. John Tennant. Praise of his whisky 



1789. 

Jan. 1. To Mrs. Dunlop. Reflections suggested by the day. 

Jan. 4. To Dr. Moore. His situation and prospects 

Jan. 6. To Mr. Robert Ainslie. His favourite quotations. Musical Museum 

Jan. 20. To Professor Dugald Stewart. Enclosing some poems for his comments upon 

Feb. 3. To Bishop Geddes. His situation and prospects 

Feb. 9. To Mr. James Burness. His wife and farm. Profit from his poems. Fanny Burns 

March 4. To Mrs. Dunlop. Reflections. His success in song encouraged a shoal of bardlings 

n. d. To the Rev. Peter Carfrae. Mr. Mylne's poem .... 
March 23. To Dr. Moore. Introduction. His ode to Mrs. Oswald 
March 25. To Mr. William Burns. Remembrance 

April 2. To Mr. Peter Hill. Economy and frugality. Purchase of books 

April 4. To Mrs. Dunlop. Sketch inscribed to the Right Hon. C. J. Fox 

April 15. To Mr. William Burns. Asking him to inake his house his home 

May 2. To Mrs. M'Murdo. With the song of " Bonnie Jean ' 

May 4. To Mr. Cunningham. With the poem of " The Wounded Hare." 

May 4. To Mr. Samuel Brown. His farm. Ailsa fowling 

May 21. To Mr. Richard Brown. Kind wishes 

May 26. To Mr. James Hamilton. Sympathy 

May 30. To William Creech Esq. Toothache. Good wishes 

June 4. To Mr. M'Auley. His own welfare 

June 8. To Mr. Robert Ainslie. Overwhelmed with incessant toil 

June 19. To Mr. Murdo. Enclosing his newest song 

June 21. To Mrs. Dunlop. Reflections on religion 

n. d. To Mr. . Fergusson the poet. 

n.d. To Miss Williams. Enclosing criticisms on her poems 

Aug. 7. To Mr. John Logan. With "The Kirk's Alarm." 

Sept. 6. To Mrs. Dunlop. Religion. Dr. Moore's " Zeluco." 

Oct. 16. To Captain Riddel. " the Whistle." 

n. d. To the same. With some of his MS. poems 

Nov. 1. To Mr. Robert Ainslie. His Excise employment 

Nov 4. To Mr. Richard Brown. His Excise duties .... 

Deo. 9. To Robert Graham, Esq ., of Fintry. The Excise. Captain Grose. Dr. M'GiU 



, 304 
3(56 



307 

, 308 



309 
310 



312 

' 313 
' 3i4 
3L5 
316 
317 
31b 



If! 



CONTENTS. 



lJec. 18. To Mrs. Dunlop. Reflections on immortality 
Dec. 16. To L. dy M. W. Constable. Jacobitism 
Dee. 20. To Provost Maxwell. At a loss for a subject 



Page 
. 31H 

319 
. 320 



1790. 

n. d To Sir John Sinclair. Account of a book-society in Nithsdale . 

n. d. To Charles Sharpe, Esq. A letter with. a fictitious signature 

Jan. 11. To Mr. Gilbert Burns. His farm a ruinous affair. Players 

n. d. To Mr. Sutherland. Enclosing a Prologue. 

Jan. 14. To Mr. William Dunbar. Excise. His Children. Another world 

Jan. 25. To Mrs. Dunlop. Falconer the poet. Old Scottish Songs 

Feb. 2. To Mr. Peter Hill. Mademoiselle Burns. Hurdis. Smollett and Cowper 

Feb. 9. To Mr. W. Nicol. The death of Nicol' s mare Peg Nicholson 

Feb. 13. To Mr. Cunningham. What strange beings we are. . 

March 2. To Mr. Peter Hill. Orders for books. Mankind . 

April 10. To Mrs. Dunlop. Mackenzie and the Mirror and Lounger 

n. d. To Collector Mitchell. A county meeting . . 

July 14. To Dr. Moore " Zeluco." Charlotte Smith 

July 16. To Mr. Murdoch. William Burns 

Aug. 2. To Mr. M'Murdo. With the Elegy on Matthew Henderson 

Aug. 8. To Mrs. Dunlop. His pride wounded 

Aug. 8. To Mr. Cunningham. Independence 

n. d. To Dr. Anderson. " The Bee." 

Aug. To William Tytler, Esq. With some West-country ballads 

Oct. 15. To Crauford Tait, Esq. Introdiicing Mr. William Duncan . 

n. d. To the same. " The Kirk's Alarm" 

Nov. To Mrs. Dunlop. On the birth of her grandchild. Tarn o'Shanter . 



, 320 

321 

. 322 



323 
324 



326 

, 327 

328 



330 
, 331 



Jan. 11. 
Jan. 17, 
Jan. it. 
Jan. 23. 
Feb. 
Feb. 7. 
Feb. 14. 
Feb. 28. 
March 12. 
March 19. 

n. d. 

n. d. 

n. d. 
April 11. 

n. d, 

n. d. 
June 11. 
Aug. 29. 
Sept. 1. 

n.d 

n. d. 

n.d. 

n.d. 
Dec. 17. 



1791. 

To Lady M. W. Constable. Thanks for the present of a gold snuffbox 

To Mr. William Dunbar. Not gone to Elysium. Sending a poem . 

To Mr. Peter Hill. Apostrophe to Poverty .... 

T( Mr. Cunningham. Tarn o'Shanter. Elegy on Miss Burnet 

To A. F. Tytler, Esq. Tarn o'Shanter .... 

To Mrs. Dunlop. Miss Burnet. Elegy writing .... 

To Rev. Arch. Alison. Thanking him for his " Essay on Taste" 

To Dr. Moore. Tarn o'Shanter. Elegy on Henderson. Zeluco. Lord Glencairn 

To Mr. Cunningham. Songs ..... 

To Mr. Alex. Dalzel. The death of the Earl of Glencairn 

To Mrs. Graham, of Fintry. With " Queen Mary's Lament" 

To the same. With his printed Poems .... 

To the Rev. G. Band. Michael Bruce .... 

To Mrs. Dunlop. Birth of a son . .' ' . 

To the same. Apology for delay .... 

To the same. Quaint invective on a pedantic critic 

To Mr. Cunningham. The case of Mr. Clarke of Moffat, Schoolmaster 

To the Earl of Buchan. With the Address to the Shade of Thomson 

To Mr. Thomas Sloan. Apologies. His crop sold well 

To Lady E. Cunningham. With the Lament for the Earl of Glencairn 

To Mr. Robert Ainslie. State of mind. His income . 

To Col. Fullarton. With some Poems. His anxiety for Fullarton's friendship 

To Miss Davis. Lethargy, Indolence, and Remorse. Our wishes and our powers 

To Mrs. Dunlop. Mrs. Henri. The Song of Death . . 



, 332 

' 333 
334 

, 335 
336 

337 
338 

339 

' 340 



341 

34J 



Jan. 5. 
Jan. 22. 
Feb. 20. 

n.d. 
Jjly 16. 
An- 22. 

& pt. 16. 

n. d 

D, <l 

Dee. 1. 



1792. 

To Mrs. Dunlop. The animadversions of the Board of Excise . .342 

To Mr. William Smcllie. Introducing Mrs. Riddel . . . 

To Mr. W. Nicol. Ironical reply to a letter of counsel and reproof . 343 

To Francis Grose, Esq. Dugald Stewart ..... 344 

To Mr. 8. Clarke. Humorous invitation to teach music to the M'Murdo family . . 345 

To Mrs. Dunlop. Love and Lesley Baillie . 

To Mr. Cunningham. Lesley Baillie ..... 346 

To Mr. Thomson. Promising his assistance to his collection of songs and airs . 348 

To Mrs. Dunlop. On the death of Mrs. Henri .... .349 

To Mr. Thomson. Thomson's fastidiousness. " My Nannie O," &c. . • 

To the same. With " My wife 's a winsome wee thing," and "Lesley Baillie" . 35C 

To the same. With Highland Mary. The air of Katherine Ogie . . 

same. Thomson's alterations and observations . . . . 

me. With " Auld Rob Morris," and " Duncan Gray" . . '.351 

To Mrs. Dunlop. Birth of a daughter. The poet Thomson's dramas . . 

rl Graham, Esq., of Fintry. The Excise enquiry into his political conduct . 352 

10 Mrs. Dunlop. Hurry of business. Excise enquiry , . 



Jan. 
Jan. 26. 
March 3. 
March 20, 
March. 
March 21. 
April. 
April 7. 
April. 
April. 
April 13. 
April 26. 

n. d. 
June. 
June 25. 
July 2. 
July. 
Aug. 
Aug. 
Aug. 
Aug. 
Aug. 
Aug. 
Aug. 
Aug. 

n. d. 
Sept. 
Sept. 
Sept. 
Sept. 
Sept. 
Sept 

Oct. 
Dec. 
Dec. 
Dec. 5. 
n. d 



CONTENTS. 



1793. 

To Mr. Thomson. With " Poortith cauld" and " Galla Water" 

To the same. William Tytler, Peter Pindar 

To Mr. Cunningham. The poet's seal. David Allan 

To Thomson. With " Mary Morison" 

To the same. With " Wandering Willie" 

To Miss Benson. Pleasure he had in meeting her 

To Patrick Miller, Esq. With the present of his printed poems 

To Mr. Thomson. Review of Scottish song. Crawfurd and ltamsay 

To the same. Criticism. Allan Ramsay 

To the same. " The last time I came o'er the moor" 

To John Francis Erskine, Esq. Self-justification. The Excise enquiry 

To Mr. Robert Ainslie. Answering letter? , Scholar-craft 

To Miss Kennedy. A letter of compliment 

To Mr. Thomson. Frazer. " Blithe hae I been on yon hill" 

To the same. " Logan Water." " O gin my love were yon red rose" 

To the same. With the song of " Bonnie Jean'" 

To the same. 

To the same. 

To the same. 

To the same. 

To the same. 

To the same. 

To the same. 

To the same. 



Hurt at the idea of pecuniary recompense. Remarks on song 

Note written in the name of Stephen Clarke 

With " Phillis the fair" 

With " Had I a cave on some wild distant shore" 

With " Allan Water" 

With " O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad," &c. 

With " Come, let me take thee to my breast" 

With " Dainty Davie" .... 

To Miss Craik. Wretchedness of poets .... 

To Lady Glencairn. Gratitude. Excise. Dramatic composition 

To Mr. Thomson. With " Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled" 

To the same. With " Behold the hour the boat arrive" 
Crawfurd and Scottish song 

Alterations in " Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled" 
Further suggested alterations in " Scots wha hae" rejected 
With " Deluded swain, the pleasure," and " Raving winds 



To the same. 
To the same. 
To the same. 
To the same, 
blowing" , 
To the same, 



Erskine and Gavin Turnbull 
To John M'Murdo, Esq. Payment of a debt. 
To the same. With his printed poems 

To Captain . Anxiety for his acquaintance. 

To Mrs. Riddel. The Dumfries Theatre 



" The Merry Muses" 



around her 



' Scots wha hae wi' "Wallace bied' : 



17 

Page 

?,5S 

s5 

3-55 

356 
357 

359 

300 
36i 
362 

363 

, 364 



Mo 
366 



36? 

368 



370 

in 



n. d. 
Tan. 12. 

n. d. 

n. d. 

n. d. 

n. d. 

n. d. 

n. d. 

n. d. 

n. d. 
Feb. 25. 
May. 
Mav. 
J une 21. 
June 25. 

n. d. 
July. 
Aug. 30. 
Sept. 
Sept. 
Oct. 19. 
Nov. 

n. d. 
Nov. 19. 

n. d. 
Nov. 

n. d. 
Dec- 



1794. 

To a Lady. In favour of a player's benefit 

To the Earl of Buchan. With a copy of " Scots wha hae " . 

To Captain Miller. With a copy of " Scots wha hae" 

To Mrs. Riddel. Lobster-coated puppies 

To the same. The gin-horse class of the human genus 

To the same. With " Werter." Her reception of him 

To Mrs. Riddel. Her caprice .... 

To the same. Her neglect and unkindness 

To John Syme, Esq. Mrs. Oswald, and " O wat ye wha's in yon town" 

To Miss . Obscure allusions to a friend's death. His personal and poetic fame 

To Mr. Cunningham. Hypochondria. Requests consolation . 

To the Earl of Glencairn. With his printed poems 

To Mr. Thomson. David Allan. " The banks of Cree" 

To David M'Culloch, Esq. Arrangements for a trip in Galloway 

To Mrs. Dunlop. Threatened with flying gout. Ode on Washington's birthday 

To Mr. James Johnson. Low spirits. The Museum. Balmerino's dirk 

To Mr. Thomson. Lines written in " Thomson's Collection of Songs" 

To the same. 

To the same. 

To the same, 

To the same. 

To the same 

To the same. 

To the same, 

To the same, 



With " How can my poor heart be glad" 

With " Ca' the yowes to the knowes" 

With " Sae flaxen were her ringlets." Epigram to Dr. Maxwell 

The charms of Miss Lorimer. " O saw ye my dear, my Pheley," &c. 

Ritson's Scottish Songs. Love and song 

English songs. The air of " Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon" 

With " O Philly, happy be the day," and " Contented wi' little" 

With " Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy" 
To Peter Miller, jun., Esq. Excise. Perry's offer to write foi the Morning Chronicle 
To Mr. Samuel Clarke, jun. A political and personal quarrel. Regret . 
To Mr. Thomson. With " Now in her green mantle blithe nature arrays " 



371 

372 

373 



374 
875 



, 376 

377 



375 
379 
380 
381 
382 



1795. 

Jan. To Mr. Thomson. With " For a' that and a' that" 

Feb. 7. To the same. Abuse of Ecclefechan 



13 « CONTENTS. 

Page 
May To Mr. 'lhomson. With "Ostay, sweet warbling woodlark, stay," and" The groves of sweet 

myrtle" . ....... 384 

n. d. To the same. With " How cruel are the parents" and " Mark yonder pomp ot costly 

fashion" ....... . . — 

May. To the same. Praise of David Allan's " Cotter's Saturday Nignt" — 

n. d. To the same. With " This is no my ain Lassie." Mrs. Riddel . . 385 

n. d. To the same. With " Forlorn, my love, no comfort near" 

»'. d. To the same. With " Last May a braw wooer," and " Why tell thy lover" 

n. d. To Mrs. Riddel. A letter from the grave 

n. d. To the same. A letter of compliment. " Anacharsis' Travels" 

n. d. To Miss Louisa Fontenelle. With a Prologue for her benerit-night 
Dec. 15. To Mrs. Dunlop. His family. Miss Fontenelle Cowper's " Task" . 387 

n. d. To Mr. Alexander Findlater. Excise schemes .... 

n. d. To the Editor of the Morning Chronicle. Written for a friend. A complaint 

n. d. To Mr. Heron, of Heron. With two political ballads 
Dec. 20. To Mrs. Dunlop. Thomson's Collection. Acting as Supervisor of Excise 

ft. d. To the Right Hon. William Pitt. Address to the Scottish Distillers 

n. d. To the Provost, Bailies, and Town Council of Dumfries. Request to be made a freeman of the 

town . . . . • ' . .390 

1796. 

Jan. 20. To Mrs. Riddel. " Anarcharsis' Travels." The muses . . .391 

Jan. 31. To Mrs. Dunlop. His ill-health ..... — 

Feb. To Mr. Thomson. Acknowledging his present to Mrs. Burns of a worsted shawl , . 

April. To the same. Ill-health. Mrs. Hyslop. Allan's etchings. Cleghorn . . 392 

n. d. To the same. His anxiety to review his songs, asking for copies . . . — 

June 4. To Mrs. Riddel. His increasing ill-health ..... 

26 J une. To Mr. Clarke, acknowledging money and requesting the loan of a further sum . . 393 

July 4. To Mr. James Johnson. The Scots Musical Museum. Request for a copy of the collection 

July 7. To Mr. Cunningham. Illness and poverty, anticipation of death . . . 

July 10. To Mr. Gilbert Burns. His ill-health and debts . . . . . 

July 10. To Mr. James Armour. Intreating Mrs. Armour to come to her daughter's confinement . 394 

n. d. To Mrs. Burns. Sea-bathing affords little relief ..... 

July 12. To Mrs. Dunlop. Her friendship. A farewell .... 395 

July 12. To Mr. Thomson. Solicits the sum of five pounds. " Fairest Maid on Devon Bank a" . — 

July 12. To Mr. James Burness. Soliciting the sum of ten pounds • . — 

July 16. To James Gracie, Esq. His rheumatism, &c &c — his loss of appctit ,. 396 

Remarks on Scottish Songs and Ballads ... . . 367 

The Border Tour . „..,.. 413 

The Highland Tour ... . 418 

Burns' Assignment of his Works . . . 421 

Glossary . . . 343 




t^X^Cl 






y 



^ / 



LIFE 



ROBERT BURNS. 



Robert Burns, the chief of the peasant poets of Scotland, was born in a little mud- 
walled cottage on the banks of Doon, near " Alio way's auld haunted kirk," in the shire 
of Ayr, on the 25th day of January, 1759. As a natural mark of the event, a sudden 
storm at the same moment swept the land : the gabel-wall of the frail dwelling gave 
way, and the babe-bard was hurried through a tempest of wind and sleet to the 
shelter of a securer hovel. He was the eldest born of three sons and three daughters ; 
his father, William, who in his native Kincardineshire, wrote his name Burness, was 
bred a gardener, and sought for work in the West ; but coming from the lands of the noble 
family of the Keiths, a suspicion accompanied him that he had been out — as rebellion was 
softly called — in the forty-five : a suspicion fatal to his hopes of rest and bread, in so 
loyal a district ; and it was only when the clergyman of his native parish certified his 
loyalty that he was permitted to toil. This suspicion of Jacobitism, revived by Burns 
himself, when he rose into fame, seems not to have influenced either the feelings, or the 
tastes of Agnes Brown, a young woman on the Doon, whom he wooed and married in De- 
cember, 1757, when he was thirty-six years old. To support her, he leased a small piece 
of ground, which he converted into a nursery and garden, and to shelter her, he raised 
with his own hands that humble abode where she gave birth to her eldest son. 

The elder Burns was a well-informed, silent, austere man, who endured no idle gaiety, 
nor indecorous language : while he relaxed somewhat the hard, stern creed of the Cove- 
nanting times, he enforced all the work-day, as well as sabbath-day observances, which 
the Calvinistic kirk requires, and scrupled at promiscuous dancing, as the staid of our 
own day scruple at the waltz. His wife was of a milder mood : she was blest with a 
singular fortitude of temper ; was as devout of heart, as she was calm of mind; and 
loved, while busied in her household concerns, to sweeten the bitterer moments of life, by 
chanting the songs and ballads of her country, of which her store was great. The 
garden and nursery prospered so much, that he was induced to widen his views, and by 
the ixelp of his kind landlord, the laird of Doonholm, and the more questionable aid of 
borrowed money, he entered upon a neighbouring farm, named Mount Oliphant, ex- 
tending to an hundred acres. This was in 1765; but the land was hungry and sterile; 
the seasons proved rainy and rough ; the toil was certain, the reward unsure ; when to 

b 



U LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

his sorrow, the laird of Doonholm — a generous Ferguson, — died : the strict terms of the 
lease, as well as the rent, were exacted by a harsh factor, and w T ith his wife and children, 
he was obliged, after a losing struggle of six years, to relinquish the farm, and seek shelter 
on the grounds of Lochlea, some ten miles off in the parish of Tarbolton. "When, in after- 
days, men's characters were in the hands of his eldest son, the scoundrel factor sat for that 
lasting portrait of insolence and wrong, in the " Twa Dogs." 

In this new farm William Burns seemed to strike root, and thrive. He was strong 
of body and ardent of mind : every day brought increase of vigour to his three sons, who, 
though very young, already put their hands to the plough, the reap-hook, and the flail. 
But it seemed that nothing which he undertook was decreed in the end to prosper : after 
four seasons of prosperity a change ensued : the farm was far from cheap j the gains under 
any lease were then so little, that the loss of a few pounds was ruinous to a farmer: bad seed 
and wet seasons had their usual influence : " The gloom of hermits and the moil of 
galley-slaves," as the poet, alluding to those days, said, were endured to no purpose ; 
when, to crown all, a difference arose between the landlord and the tenant, as to the terms 
of the lease ; and the early days of the poet, and the declining years of his father, were 
harassed by disputes, in which sensitive minds are sure to suffer. 

Amid these labours and disputes, the poet's father remembered the worth of religious, 
and moral instruction : he took pan of this upon himself. A week-day in Lochlea 
wore the sober looks of a Sunday : he read the Bible and explained, as intelligent 
peasants are accustomed to do, the sense, when dark or difficult; he loved to 'discuss the 
spiritual meanings, and gaze on the mystical splendours of the Revelations. He was aided 
in these labours, first, by the schoolmaster of Alloway-mill, near the Boon ; secondly, by 
John M urdoch, student of divinity, who undertook to teach arithmetic, grammar, French, 
and Latin, to the boys of Lochlea, and the sons of five neighbouring farmers. Murdoch, 
who was an enthusiast in learning, much of a pedant, and such a judge of genius that he 
thought wit should always be laughing, and poetry wear an eternal smile, performed his 
task well: he found Robert to be quick in apprehension, and not afraid to study when know- 
ledge was the reward. He taught him to turn verse into its natural prose order ; to sup- 
ply all the ellipses, and not to desist till the sense was clear and plain : he also, in their 
walks, told him the names of different objects both in Latin and French; and though his 
knowledge of these languages never amounted to much, he approached the grammar of 
the English tongue, through the former, which was of material use to him, in his poetic 
compositions. Burns was, even in those early days, a sort of enthusiast in all that concerned 
the glory of Scotland ; he used to fancy himself a soldier of the days of the Wallace and the 
Bruce : loved to strut after the bag-pipe and the drum, and read of the bloody struggles 
cf his country for freedom and existence, till " a Scottish prejudice," he says, " was poured 
into my veins, which will boil there till the flood-gates of life are shut in eternal rest." 

In this mood of mind Burns was unconsciously approaching the land of poesie. In addi- 
tion to the histories of the Wallace and the Bruce he found, on the shelves of his neighbours, 
not only whole bodies of divinity, and sermons without limit, but the works of some of 
the best English, as well as Scottish poets, together with songs and ballads innumerable. 
On these he loved to pore whenever a moment of leisure came ; nor was verse his sole 
favourite ; he desired to drink knowledge at any fountain, and Guthrie's Grammar, 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. Ill 

Dickson on Agriculture, Addison's Spectator, Locke on the Human Understanding, and 
Taylor's Scripture Doctrine of Original Sin were as welcome to his heart as Shakspeare, 
Milton, Pope, Thomson, and Young. There is a mystery in the workings of genius : 
with these poets in his head and hand, we see m t tkit he has advanoed one step in the 
way in which he was soon to walk ; " Highland Mary" and " Tarn o' Shanter" sprang 
from other inspirations. 

Burns lifts up the veil himself, from the studies which made him a poet. " In my 
boyish days," he says to Moore, " I owed much to an old woman (Jenny Wilson) who 
resided in the family, remarkable for her credulity and superstition. She had, I suppose, 
the largest collection in the country of tales and songs, concerning devils, ghosts, fairies, 
brownies, witches, warlocks, spunkies, kelpies, elfcandles, dead-lights, wraiths, appari- 
tions, cantraips, giants, enchanted towers, dragons, and other trumpery. This cultivated 
the latent seeds of poesie; but had so strong an effect upon my imagination that to 
this hour, in my nocturnal rambles, I sometimes keep a look-out on suspicious places." 
Here we have the young poet taking lessons in the classic lore of his native land : in the 
school of Janet Wilson he profited largely ; her tales gave a hue, all their own, to many 
noble effusions. But her teaching was at the hearth-stone : when he was in the fields, either 
driving a cart or walking to labour, he had ever in his hand a collection of songs, such as 
any stall in the land could supply him with ; and over these he pored, ballad by ballad, 
and verse by verse, noting the true, tender, and the natural sublime from affectation and fus- 
tian. " To this," he said, " I am convinced that I owe much of my critic craft, such as it is.'' 
His mother, too, unconsciously led him in the ways of the muse : she loved to recite or 
sing to him a strange, but clever ballad, called "the Life and Age of Man:" this strain 
of piety and imagination was in his mind when he wrote " Man was made to Mourn." 

He found other teachers — of a tenderer nature and softer influence. " You know," 
he says to Moore, " our country custom of coupling a man and woman too-ether as 
partners in the labours of harvest. In my fifteenth autumn my partner was a bewitch- 
ing creature, a year younger than myself : she was in truth a bonnie, sweet, sonsie lass, 
and unwittingly to herself, initiated me in that delicious passion, which, in spite of acid dis- 
appointment, gin-horse prudence, and book-worm philosophy, I hold to be the first of human 
joys. How she caught the contagion I cannot tell ; I never expressly said I loved her : in- 
deed I did not know myself why I liked so much to loiter behind with her, when returning 
in the evenings from our labours; why the tones of her voice made my heart-strings thrill 
like an JEolian harp, and particularly why my pulse beat such a furious ratan, when 1 
looked and fingered over her little hand, to pick out the cruel nettle-stings and thistles 
Among other love inspiring qualities, she sang sweetly, and it was her favourite reel to 
which I attempted to give an embodied vehicle in rhyme ; thus with me began love 
and verse." This intercourse with the fair part of the creation, was, to his slumbering 
emotions, a voice from heaven to call them into life and poetry. 

From the school of traditionary lore and love, Burns now went to a rougher academy 
Lochlea, though not producing fine crops of corn, was considered excellent for flax ; and 
while the cultivation of this commodity was committed to his father and his brother G ilbert. 
he was sent to Irvine, at Midsummer, 1781, to learn the trade of a flax-dresser, 
under one Peacock, kinsman to his mother. Some time before, he had spent a portion of ji 



iv LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS 

summer at a school in Kirkoswald, learning mensuration and land-surveying > where he had 
mingled in scenes of sociality with smugglers, and enjoyed the pleasure of a silent walk, 
under the moon, with the young and the beautiful. At Irvine, he laboured by day to 
acquire a knowledge of his business, and at night he associated with the gay and the 
thoughtless, with whom he learnt to empty his glass, and indulge in free discourse on 
topics forbidden at Lochlea. He had one small room for a lodging, for which he gave a 
shilling a week : meat he seldom tasted, and his food consisted chiefly of oatmeal and 
potatoes sent from his fathers house. In a letter to his father, written with great purity 
and simplicity of style, he thus gives a picture of himself, mental and bodily, "Honoured Sir, 
I have purposely delayed writing, in the hope that I should have the pleasure of seeing 
vou on new year's day, but work comes so hard upon us that I do not choose to be ab- 
sent on that account. My health is nearly the same as when you were here, only my 
sleep is a little sounder, and, on the whole, I am rather better than otherwise, though I 
mend by very slow degrees : the weakness of my nerves has so debilitated my mind that 
I dare neither review past wants nor look forward into futurity, for the least anxiety or 
perturbation in my breast produce most unhappy effects on my whole frame. Some- 
times indeed, when for an hour or two my spirits are a little lightened, I glimmer a little 
into futurity ; but my principal and indeed my only pleasureable employment is looking 
backwards and forwards in a moral and religious way. I am quite transported at the 
thought that ere long, perhaps very soon, I shall bid an eternal adieu to all the pains and 
uneasinesses, and disquietudes of this weary life. As for the world, I despair of ever mak- 
ing a figure in it : I am not formed for the bustle of the busy, nor the flutter of the gay. I 
foresee that poverty and obscurity probably await me, and I am in some measure pre- 
pared and daily preparing to meet them. I have but just time and paper to return you my 
grateful thanks for the lessons of virtue and piety you have given me, which were but too 
much neglected at the time of giving them, but which, I hope, have been remembered ere 
it is yet too late." This remarkable letter was written in the twenty-second year of his 
age ; it alludes to the illness which seems to have been the companion of his youth, a 
nervous head-ache, brought on by constant toil and anxiety ; and it speaks of the melan- 
choly which is the common attendant of genius, and its sensibilities, aggravated by de- 
spair of distinction. The catastrophe which happened ere this letter was well in his father's 
hand, accords ill with quotations from the Bible, and hopes fixed in heaven : — " As we 
gave," he says, " a welcome carousal to the new year, the shop took fire, and burnt to 
ashes, and I was left, like a true poet, not worth a sixpence." 

This disaster was followed by one more grievous : his father was well in years when 
he was married, and age and a constitution injured by toil and disappointment, began 
to press him down, ere his sons had grown up to man's estate. On all sides the 
clouds began to darken: the farm was unprosperous : the speculations in flax failed ; 
and the landlord of Lochlea, raising a question upon the meaning of the lease, con- 
cerning rotation of crop, pushed th< inittor to a law-suit, alike ruinous to a poor man 
either in its success or its failure. * * After three years tossing and whirling," says Burns, 
" in the vortex of litigation, my father was just saved from the horrors of a jail by a con- 
sumption, which, after two years' promises, kindly stept in, and carried him away to 
where the ' wicked cease from troubling and the weary are at rest.' His all went among 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. V 

the hell-hounds that prowl in the kennel of justice. The finishing evil which brought up 
the rear of this infernal file, was my constitutional melancholy being increased to such a 
degree, that for three months I was in a state of mind scarcely to be envied by the hope- 
less wretches who have got their mittimus, ' Depart from me, ye cursed.' " 

Robert Burns was now the head of his father's house. He gathered together the little 
that law and misfortune had spared, and took the farm of Mossgiel, near Mauchline, contain 
ing one hundred and eighteen acres, at a rent of ninety pounds a year : his mother and 
sisters took the domestic superintendence of home, barn, and byre ; and he associated his 
brother Gilbert in the labours of the land. It was made a joint affair: the poet was 
young, willing, and vigorous, and excelled in ploughing, sowing, reaping, mowing, and 
thrashing. His wages were fixed at seven pounds per annum, and such for a time was his 
care and frugality, that he never exceeded this small allowance. He purchased books on 
farming, held conversations with the old and the knowing ; and said unto himself, " I 
shall be prudent and wise, and my shadow shall increase in the land." But it was not 
decreed that these resolutions were to endure, and that he was to become a mighty agricul- 
turist in the west. Farmer Attention, as the proverb says, is a good farmer, all the world 
over, and Burns was such by fits and by starts. But he who writes an ode on the sheep 
he is about to shear, a poem on the flower that he covers with the furrow, who sees visions 
on his way to market, who makes rhymes on the horse he is about to yoke, and a song on 
the girl who shows the whitest hands among his reapers, has small chance of leading a 
market, or of being laird of the fields he rents. The dreams of Burns were of the muses, 
and not of rising markets, of golden locks rather than of yellow corn : he had other 
faults. It is not known that William Burns was aware before his death that his eldest 
son had sinned in rhyme ; but we have Gilbert's assurance, that his father went to the 
grave in ignorance of his son's errors of a less venial kind — unwitting that he was soon 
to give a two-fold proof of both in " Rob the Rhymer's Address to his Bastard 
Child" — a poem less decorous than witty. 

The dress and condition of Burns when he became a poet were not at all poetical, in 
the minstrel meaning of the word. His clothes, coarse and homely, were made from 
home-grown wool, shorn off his own sheeps' backs, carded and spun at his own fire-side, 
woven by the village weaver, and when not of natural hodden-gray, dyed a half-blue in 
the village vat. They were shaped and sewed by the district tailor, who usually wrought 
at the rate of a groat a day and his food ; and as the wool was coarse, so also was the 
workmanship. The linen which he wore was home-grown, home-hackled, home-spun, 
home-woven, and home-bleached, and, unless designed for Sunday use, was of coarse, 
strong ham, to suit the tear and wear of barn and field. His shoes came from rustic tan- 
pits, for most farmers then prepared their own leather ; were armed sole and heel, with 
heavy, broad-headed nails, to endure the clod and the road : as hats were then little in 
use, save among small lairds or country gentry, westlan heads were commonly covered with 
a coarse, broad, blue bonnet, with a stopple on its flat crown, made in thousands at Kil- 
marnock, and known in all lands by the name of scone bonnets. His plaid was a hand- 
some red and white check — for pride in poets, he said, was no sin — prepared of fine wool 
with more than common care, by the hands of his mother and sisters, and woven with more 
skill than the village weaver was usually required to exert. His dwelling was in keeping 



v j LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

with his dress, a low, thatched house, with a kitchen, a bed-room and closet, with floors of 
kneaded clay, and ceilings of moorland turf : a few books on a shelf, thumbed by many a 
thumb ; a few hams drying above head in the smoke, which was in no haste to get out at 
the roof — a wooden settle, some oak chairs, chaff beds well covered with blankets, with a 
fire of peat and wood burning at a distance from the gable wall, on the middle of the floor. 
His food was as homely as his habitation, and consisted chiefly of oatmeal-porridge, barley- 
broth, and potatoes, and milk. How the muse happened to visit him in this clay biggin, 
take a fancy to a clouterly p-easant, and teach him strains of consummate beauty and 
elegance, must ever be a matter of wonder to all those, and they are not few, who hold 
that noble sentiments and heroic deeds are the exclusive portion of the gently nursed and 
the far descended. 

Of the earlier verses of Burns few are preserved : when composed, he put them on 
paper, but he kept them to himself : though a poet at sixteen, he seems not to have made 
even his brother his confidante till he became a man, and his judgment had ripened. He, 
however, made a little clasped paper book his treasurer, and under the head of " Observa- 
tions, Hints, Songs, and Scraps of Poetry," we find many a wayward and impassioned verse, 
songs rising little above the humblest country strain, or bursting into an eiegance and a 
beauty worthy of the highest of minstrels. The first words noted down are the stanzas 
which he composed on his fair companion of the harvest-field, out of w T hose hands he loved 
to remove the nettle-stings and the thistles : the prettier song, beginning " Now wastlin 
win's and slaughtering guns," written on the lass of Kirkoswald, with whom, instead of 
learning mensuration, he chose to wander under the light of the moon : a strain better 
still, inspired by the charms of a neighbouring maiden, of the name of Annie Ronald ; 
another, of equal merit, arising out of his nocturnal adventures among the lasses of the 
west ; and, finally that crowning glory of all his lyric compositions, " Green grow tha 
rashes." This little clasped book, however, seems not to have been made his confidante till 
his twenty- third or twenty-fourth year : he probably admitted to its pages only the strains 
w r hich he loved most, or such as had taken a place in his memory : at whatever age it 
was commenced, he had then begun to estimate his own character, and intimate his for- 
tunes, for he calls himself in its pages " a man who had little art in making money, and 
still less in keeping it." 

We have not been told how welcome the incense of his songs rendered him to the rustic 
maidens of Kyle : women are not apt to be won by the charms of verse ; they have little 
sympathy with dreamers on Parnassus, and allow themselves to be influenced by some- 
thing more substantial than the roses and lilies of the muse. Burns had other claims to their 
regard than those arising from poetic skill : he was tall, young, good-looking, with dark, 
bright eyes, and words and wit at will : he had a sarcastic sally for all lads who presumed 
to cross his path, and a soft, persuasive word for all lasses on whom he fixed his fancy : 
nor was this all — he was adventurous and bold in love trystes and love excursions : long, 
rough roads, stormy nights, flooded rivers, and lonesome places w r ere no letts to him ; and 
when the dangers or labours of the w r ay were braved, he was alike skilful in eluding 
vigilant aunts, wakerife mothers, and envious or suspicious sisters : for rivals he had a 
blow as ready as he had a word, and was familiar with snug stack-yards, broomy glens, 
and nooks of hawthorn and honeysuckle, where maidens love to be wooed. This ren- 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. Vll 

dered him dearer to woman's heart than all the lyric effusions of his fancy ; and when we 
add to such allurements, a warm, flowing, and persuasive eloquence, we need not wonder 
that woman listened and was won ; that one of the most charming damsels of the West 
said, an hour with him in the dark was worth a life-time of light with any other body ; 
or that the accomplished and beautiful Duchess of Gordon declared, in a latter day, that no 
man ever carried her so completely off her feet as Robert Burns. 

It is one of the delusions of the poet's critics and biographers, that the sources of his 
inspiration are to be found in the great classic poets of the land, with some of whom he 
had from his youth been familiar : there is little or no trace of them in any of his com- 
positions. He read and wondered — he warmed his fancy at their flame, he corrected his 
own natural taste by theirs, but he neither copied nor imitated, and there are but two or 
three allusions to Young and Shakspeare in all the range of his verse. He could not but 
feel that he was the scholar of a different school, and that his thirst was to be slaked at other 
fountains. The language in which those great bards embodied their thoughts was unap- 
proachable to an Ayrshire peasant ; it was to him as an almost foreign tongue : he had to 
think and feel in the not ungraceful or inharmonious language of his own vale, and then, in a 
manner, translate it into that of Pope or of Thomson, with the additional difficulty of finding 
English words to express the exact meaning of those of Scotland, which had chiefly been 
retained because equivalents could not be found in the more elegant and grammatical 
tongue. Such strains as those of the polished Pope or the sublimer Milton were beyond 
his power, less from deficiency of genius than from lack of language : he could, indeed, 
write English with ease and fluency; but when he desired to be tender or impassioned, 
to persuade or subdue, he had recourse to the Scottish, and he found it sufficient. 

The goddesses or the Dalilahs of the young poet's song were, like the language in 
which he celebrated them, the produce of the district ; not dames high and exalted, but 
lasses of the barn and of the byre, who had never been in higher company than that of 
shepherds or ploughmen, or danced in a politer assembly than that of their fellow- 
peasants, on a barn-floor, to the sound of the district fiddle. Nor even of these did 
he choose the loveliest to lay out the wealth of his verse upon : he has been ac- 
cused, by his brother among others, of lavishing the colours of his fancy on very 
ordinary faces. "He had always," says Gilbert, " a jealousy of people who were 
richer than himself; his love, therefore, seldom settled on persons of this descrip- 
tion. When he selected any one, out of the sovereignty of his good pleasure, to whom 
he should pay his particular attention, she was instantly invested with a sufficient stock 
of charms out of the plentiful stores of bis own imagination : and there was often a great 
dissimilitude between his fair captivator, as she appeared to others and as she seemed 
when invested with the attributes he gave her." " My heart," he himself, speaking of 
those days, observes, "was completely tinder, and was ^Ternally lighted up by some 
goddess or other." Yet, it must be acknowledged thai sufficient room exists for believing 
that Burns and his brethren of the West had very different notions of the captivating and 
the beautiful ; while they were moved by rosy cheeks and looks of rustic health, 
he was moved, like a sculptor, by beauty of form or by harmony of motion, and 
by expression, which lightened up ordinary features and rendered them capti- 
vating. Such, I have been told, were several of the lasses of the West, to whom, if he 



Till LIKE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

did not surrender his heart, he rendered homage ; and both elegance of form and beauty 
of face were visible to all in those of whom he afterwards sang — the Hamiltons and the 
Burnets of Edinburgh, and the Millers and M'Murdos of the Nith. 

The mind of Burns took now a wider range : he had sung of the maidens of Kyle in 
strains not likely soon to die, and though not weary of the softnesses of love, he desired 
to try his genius on matters of a sterner kind — what those subjects were he tells us ; 
they were homely and at hand, of a native nature and of Scottish growth : places celebrated 
in Roman story, vales made famous in Grecian song — hills of vines and groves of myrtle 
had few charms for him. " I am hurt," thus he writes in August, 1785, "to see other 
towns, rivers, woods, and haughs of Scotland immortalized in song, while my dear native 
county, the ancient Baillieries of Carrick, Kyle and Cunningham, famous in both ancient 
and modern times for a gallant and warlike race of inhabitants — a county where civil and 
religious liberty have ever found their first support and their asylum — a county, the 
birth-place of many famous philosophers, soldiers, and statesmen, and the scene of many 
great events recorded in history, particularly the actions of the glorious "Wallace — yet 
we have never had one Scotch poet of any eminence to make the fertile banks of Irvine, 
the romantic woodlands and sequestered scenes of Ayr, and the mountainous source 
and winding sweep, of the Doon, emulate Tay, Forth, Ettrick and Tweed. This is a 
complaint I would gladly remedy, but, alas ! I am far unequal to the task, both in 
genius and education." To fill up with glowing verse the outline which this sketch 
indicates, was to raise the long-laid spirit of national song — to waken a strain to which 
the whole land would yield response — a miracle unattempted — certainly unperformed—, 
since the days of the Gentle Shepherd. It is true that the tongue of the muse had at 
no time been wholly silent; that now and then a burst of sublime woe, like the song of 
" Mary, weep no more for me," and of lasting merriment and humour, like that of 
" Tibbie Fowler," proved that the fire of natural poesie smouldered, if it did not blaze ; 
while the social strains of the unfortunate Fergusson revived in the city, if not in the field, 
the memory of him who sang the " Monk and the Miller s wife." But notwithstanding 
these and other productions of equal merit, Scottish poesie, it must be owned, had lost 
much of its original ecstacy and fervour, and that the boldest efforts of the muse no more 
equalled the songs of Dunbar, of Douglas, of Lyndsay, and of James the Fifth, than the 
sound of an artificial cascade resembles the undying thunders of Corra. 

To accomplish this required an acquaintance with man beyond what the forge, the 
change-house, and the market-place of the village supplied ; a look further than the 
barn-yard and the furrowed field, and a livelier knowledge and deeper feeling of history 
than, probably, Burns ever possessed. To all ready and accessible sources of knowledge 
he appears to have had recourse ; he sought matter for his muse in the meetings, religious 
as well as social, of the district — consorted with staid matrons, grave plodding far- 
mers — with those who preached as well as those who listened — with sharp-tongued attor- 
neys, who laid down the law over a Mauchline gill — with country squires, whose wisdom 
was great in the game-laws, and in contested elections — and with roving smugglers, who at 
that time hung, as a cloud, on all the western coast of Scotland. In the company of 
farmers and fellow-peasants, he witnessed scenes which he loved to embody in verse, saw 
pictures of peace and joy, now woven into the web of his song, and had a poetic impulse 



LIFE OP ROBERT BURNS. {* 

given to him both by cottage devotion and cottage merriment. If lie was familial 
with love and all its outgoings and incomings — had met his lass in the midnight 
shade, or walked with her under the moon, or braved a stormy night and a haunted 
road for her sake — he was as well acquainted with the joys which belong to social 
intercourse, when instruments of music speak to the feet, when the reek of punch- 
bowls gives a tongue to the staid and demure, and bridal festivity, and harvest- 
homes, bid a whole valley lift up its voice and be glad. It is more difficult to 
decide what poetic use he could make of his intercourse with that loose and lawless 
class of men, who, from love of gain, broke the laws and braved the police of their country: 
that he found among smugglers, as he says, " men of noble virtues, magnanimity, 
generosity, disinterested friendship, and modesty," is easier to believe than that he escaped 
the contamination of their sensual manners and prodigality. The people of Kyle re- 
garded this conduct with suspicion : they were not to be expected to know that when 
Burns ranted and boused with smugglers, conversed with tinkers huddled in a kiln, or 
listened to the riotous mirth of a batch of " randie gangrel bodies" as they " toomed their 
powks and pawned their duds," for liquor in Posie Nansie's, he was taking sketches for 
the future entertainment and instruction of the world ; they could not foresee that from 
all this moral strength and poetic beauty would arise. 

While meditating something better than a ballad to his mistress's eyebrow, he 
did not neglect to lay out the little skill he had in cultivating the grounds of Mossgiel. 
The prosperity in which he found himself in the first and second seasons, induced him to hope 
that good fortune had not yet forsaken him : a genial summer and a good market seldom 
come together to the farmer, but at first they came to Burns; and to show that he was wor- 
thy of them, he bought books on agriculture, calculated rotation of crops, attended sales, held 
the plough with diligence, used the scythe, the reap-hook, and the flail, with skill, and the 
malicious even began to say that there was something more in him than wild sallies of wit 
and foolish rhymes. But the farm lay high, the bottom was wet, and in a third season, 
indifferent seed and a wet harvest robbed him at once of half his crop ; he seems to have re- 
garded this as an intimation from above, that nothing which he undertook would prosper : 
and consoled himself with joyous friends and with the society of the muse. The 
judgment cannot be praised which selected a farm with a wet cold bottom, and sowed 
it with unsound seed ; but that man who despairs because a wet season robs him 
of the fruits of the field, is unfit for the warfare of life, where, fortitude is as much 
required as by a general on a field of battle, when the tide of success threatens to 
flow against him. The poet seems to have believed, very early in life, that he waa 
none of the elect of Mammon; that he was too much of a genius ever to acquire 
wealth by steady labour, or by, as he loved to call it, gin-horse prudence, or grub- 
bing industry. 

And yet there were hours and days in which Burns, even when the rain fell on 
his unhoused sheaves, did not wholly despair of himself : he laboured, nay sometimes 
he" slaved on his farm ; and at intervals of toil, sought to embellish his mind with 
such knowledge as might be useful, should chance, the goddess who ruled his lot, 
drop him upon some of the higher places of the land. He had, while he lived at 
Tarbolton, united with some half-dozen young men, all sons of farmers in that neigh- 



X LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

bourhood, in forming a club, of which the object was to charm away d fe w evening 
hours in the week with agreeable chit-chat, and the discussion of topics of economy of 
love. Of this little society the poet was president, and the first question they were 
called on to settle was this, " Suppose a young man bred a farmer, but without any fortune, 
has it in his power to marry either of two women ; the one a girl of large fortune, but 
neither handsome in person, nor agreeable in conversation, but who can manage the 
household affairs of a farm well enough ; the other of them, a girl every way agreeable in 
person, conversation, and behaviour, but without any fortune, which of them shall he 
choose V This question was started by the poet, and once every week the club were called 
to the consideration of matters connected with rural life and industry : their expenses 
were limited to threepence a week ; and till the departure of Burns to the distant 
Mossgiel, the club continued to live and thrive ; . on his removal it lost the spirit which 
gave it birth, and was heard of no more ; but its aims and its usefulness were revived 
in Mauchline, where the poet was induced to establish a society which only differed from 
the other in spending the moderate fines arising from non-attendance, on books, instead 
of liquor. Here, too, Burns was the president, and the members were chiefly the sons of 
husbandmen, whom he found, he said, more natural in their manners, and more agreeable 
than the self-sufficient mechanics of villages and towns, who were ready to dispute on all 
topics, and inclined to be convinced on none. This club had the pleasure of subscribing 
for the first edition of the works of its great associate. It has been questioned by his 
first biographer, whether the refinement of mind, which follows the reading of books 
of eloquence and delicacy, — the mental improvement resulting from such calm discus- 
sions as the Tarbolton and Mauchline clubs indulged in, was not injurious to men en- 
gaged in the barn and at the plough. A well-ordered mind will be strengthened, as well 
as embellished, by elegant knowledge, while over those naturally barren and ungenial all 
that is refined or noble will pass as a sunny shower scuds over lumps of granite, bringing 
neither warmth nor life. 

In the account which the poet gives to Moore of his early poems, he says little 
about his exquisite lyrics, and less about " The Death and dying Words of Poor 
Mailie," or her " Elegy," the first of his poems where the inspiration of the muse is visible; 
but he speaks with exultation of the fame which those indecorous sallies, " Holy Willie's 
Prayer" and " The Holy Tulzie" brought from some of the clergy, and the people of 
Ayrshire. The west of Scotland is ever in the van, when matters either political or 
leligious are agitated. Calvinism was shaken at this time, with a controversy among its 
professors, of which it is enough to say, that while one party rigidly adhered to the word 
and letter of the Confession of Faith, and preached up the palmy and wholesome days of 
the Covenant, the other sought to soften the harsher rules and observances of the kirk, 
and to bring moderation and charity into its discipline as well as its councils. Both be- 
lieved themselves right, both were loud and hot, and personal, — bitter with a bitterness 
only known in religious controversy. The poet sided with the professors of the New Light, 
as the more tolerant were called, and handled the professors of the Old Light, as the other 
party were named, with the most unsparing severity. For this he had sufficient cause: — he 
had experienced the mercilessness of kirk-discipline, when his frailties caused him to visit the 
stool of repentance ; and moreover his friend Gavin Hamilton, a writer in Mauchline, had 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. , Xi 

been sharply censured by the same authorities, for daring to gallop on Sundays. Moodie, of 
Riccarton, and Russel, of Kilmarnock, were the first who tasted of the poet's wrath. They, 
though professors of the Old Light, had quarrelled, and, it is added, fought : " The Holy 
Tulzie," which recorded, gave at the same time wings to the scandal ; while for " Holy 
Willie," an elder of Mauchline, and an austere and hollow pretender to righteousness, 
he reserved the fiercest of all his lampoons. In " Holy Willie's Prayer," he lays a burn- 
ing hand on the terrible doctrine of predestination : this is a satire, daring, personal, and 
profane. Willie claims praise in the singular, acknowledges folly in the plural, and makes 
heaven accountable for his sins ! In a similar strain of undevout satire he congratulates 
Goudie, of Kilmarnock, on his Essays on Revealed Religion. These poems, particulaily 
the two latter, are the sharpest lampoons in the language. 

While drudging in the cause of the New Light controversialists, Burns was not uncon- 
sciously strengthening his hands for worthier toils : the applause which selfish divines be- 
stowed on his witty, but graceless effusions, could not be enough for one who knew how 
fleeting the fame was which came from the heat of party disputes; nor was he insensi- 
ble that songs of a beauty unknown for a century to national poesie, had been unregarded 
in the hue and cry which arose on account of " Holy Willie's Prayer" and " The Holy 
Tulzie." He hesitated to drink longer out of the agitated puddle of Calvinistic contro- 
versy, he resolved to slake his thirst at the pure well-springs of patriot feeling and 
domestic love ; and accordingly, in the last and best of his controversial compositions, he 
rose out of the lower regions of lampoon into the upper air of true poetry. " The Holy 
Fair," though stained in one or two verses with personalities, exhibits a scene glowing 
with character and incident and life : the aim of the poem is not so much to satirize one 
or two Old Light divines, as to expose and rebuke those almost indecent festivities, which 
in too many of the western parishes accompanied the administration of the sacrament. 
In the earlier days of the church, when men were staid and sincere, it was, no doubt, an 
impressive sight to see rank succeeding rank, of the old and the young, all calm and all 
devout, seated before the tent of the preacher, in the sunny hours of June, listening to his 
eloquence, or partaking of the mystic bread and wine ; but in these our latter days, when 
discipline is relaxed, along with the sedate and the pious come swarms of the idle 
and the profligate, whom no eloquence can edify and no solemn rite affect. On these, 
and such as these, the poet has poured his satire ; and since this desirable reprehen- 
sion the Holy Fairs, east as well as west, have become more decorous, if not more 
devout. 

His controversial sallies were accompanied, or followed, by a series of poems which 
showed that national character and manners, as Lockhart has truly and happily said, 
were once more in the hands of a national poet. These compositions are both numerous 
and various: they record the poet's own experience and emotions; they exhibit the 
highest moral feeling, the purest patriotic sentiments, and a deep sympathy with the 
fortunes, both here and hereafter, of his fellow-men; they delineate domestic man- 
ners, man's stern as well as social hours, and mingle the serious with the joyous, the 
sarcastic with the solemn, the mournful with the pathetic, the amiable with the gay 
and all with an ease and an unaffected force and freedom known only to the genius 
of Shakspeare. In " The Twa Dogs" he seeks to reconcile the labourer to his lot, and 



Xll LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

intimates, by examples diawn from the liall as well as the cottage, that happiness resides 
in the humblest abodes, and is even partial to the clouted shoe. In " Scotch Drink" 
be excites man to love his country, by precepts both heroic and social ; and proves that 
while wine and brandy are the tipple of slaves, whisky and ale are the drink of the 
free : sentiments of a similar kind distinguish his " Earnest Cry and Prayer to the 
Scotch Representatives in the House of Commons," each of whom he exhorts by name 
to defend the remaining liberties and immunities of his country. A higher tone dis- 
tinguishes the " Address to the Deil :" he records all the names, and some of them 
are strange ones; and all the acts, and some of them are as whimsical as they are 
terrible, of this far kenned and noted personage ; to these he adds some of the fiend's 
doings as they stand in Scripture, together with his own experiences; and concludes 
by a hope, as unexpected as merciful and relenting, that Satan may not be exposed 
to an eternity of torments. " The Dream" is a humorous sally, and may be almost re- 
garded as prophetic. The poet feigns himself present, in slumber, at the Royal birth- 
day ; and supposes that he addresses his majesty, on his household matters as well as 
the affairs of the nation. Some of the princes, it has been satirically hinted, behaved after- 
wards in such a way as if they wished that the scripture of the Burns should be fulfilled : 
in this strain he has imitated the license and equalled the wit of some of the elder 
Scottish Poets. 

" The Vision" is wholly serious; it exhibits the poet in one of those fits of despondency 
which the dull, who have no misgivings, never know : he dwells with sarcastic bitterness 
on the opportunities which, for the sake of song, he has neglected of becoming wealthy, 
and is drawing a sad parallel between rags and riches, when the muse steps in and 
cheers his despondency, by assuring him of undying fame. " Halloween" is a strain of a 
more homely kind, recording the superstitious beliefs, and no less superstitious doings of old 
Scotland, on that night, when witches and elves and evil spirits are let loose among the 
children of men : it reaches far back into manners and customs, and is a picture, curious 
and valuable. The tastes and feelings of husbandmen inspired "The old Farmer's 
Address to his old mare Maggie," which exhibits some pleasing recollections of his days 
of courtship and hours of sociality. The calm, tranquil picture of household happiness and 
devotion in " The Cotter's Saturday Night," has induced Hogg, among others, to believe 
that it has less than usual of the spirit of the poet, but it has all the spirit that was re- 
quired ; the toil of the week has ceased, the labourer has returned to his well-ordered 
home — his " cozie ingle and his clean hearth- stane," — and with his wife and children 
beside him, turns his thoughts to the praise of that God to whom he owes all : this he 
performs with a reverence and an awe, at once natural, national, and poetic. " The 
Mouse" is a brief and happy and very moving poem : happy, for it delineates, with won 
derful truth and life, the agitation of the mouse when the coulter broke into its abode, 
and moving, for the poet takes the lesson of ruin to himself, and feels the present and dreads 
the future. " The Mountain Daisy," once, more properly, called by Burns " The Go wan,' 
resembles " The Mouse" in incident and in moral, and is equally happy, in language and con- 
ception. " The Lament" is a dark, and all but tragic page, from the poet's own life, 
" Man was made to Mourn" takes the part of the humble and the homeless, against 
the coldness and selfishness of the wealthy and the powerful, a favourite topic of medita- 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. x {{{ 

tion with Burns. lie refrained, for awhile, from making " Daith and Doctor Horn- 
hook" public ; a poem which deviates from the offensiveness of personal satire, into a 
strain of humour, at once airy and original. 

His epistles in verse may be reckoned amongst his happiest productions : they are writ- 
ten in all moods of mind, and are, by turns, lively and sad; careless and serious; — now 
giving advice, then taking it; laughing at learning, and lamenting its want; scoffing 
at propriety and wealth, yet admitting, that without the one he cannot be wise, nor 
wanting the other, independent. The Epistle to David Sillar is the first of these 
compositions : the poet has no news to tell, and no serious question to ask : he has only to 
communicate his own emotions of joy, or of sorrow, and these he relates and discusses 
with singular elegance as well as ease, twining, at the same time, into the fabric of his 
composition, agreeable allusions to the taste and affections of his correspondent. He 
seems to have rated the intellect of Sillar as the highest among his rustic friends : he pays 
him more deference, and addresses him in a higher vein than he observes to others. 
The Epistles to Lapraik, to Smith, and to Rankine, are in a more familiar, or social 
mood, and lift the veil from the darkness of the poet's condition, and exhibit a mind of 
first-rate power, groping, and that surely, its way to distinction, in spite of humility of 
birth, obscurity of condition, and the coldness of the wealthy or the titled. The epistles of 
other poets owe some of their fame to the rank or the reputation of those to whom they 
are addressed ; those of Burns are written, one and all, to nameless and undistinguished 
men. Sillar was a country schoolmaster, Lapraik a moorland laird, Smith a small shop- 
keeper, and Rankine a farmer, who loved a gill and a joke. Yet these men were the chief 
friends, the only literary associates of the poet, during those early years, in which, with 
some exceptions, his finest works were written. 

Burns, while he was writing the poems, the chief of which we have named, was a 
labouring husbandman on the little farm of Mossgiel, a pursuit which affords but few 
leisure hours for either reading or pondering ; but to him the stubble-field was musing- 
ground, and the walk behind the plough, a twilight saunter on Parnassus. As, with a 
careful hand and a steady eye, he guided his horses, and saw an evenly furrow turned up 
by the share, his thoughts were on other themes ; he was straying in haunted glens, when 
spirits have power — looking in fancy on the lasses " skelping barefoot," in silks and in scar- 
lets, to a field-preaching — walking in imagination with the rosie widow, who on Halloween 
ventured to dip her left sleeve in the burn where three lairds' lands met — making the 
" bottle clunk," with joyous smugglers, on a lucky run of gin or brandy — or if his thoughts 
at all approached his acts — he was moralizing on the daisy oppressed by the furrow which 
his own plough-share had turned. That his thoughts were thus wandering we have his own 
testimony, with that of his brother Gilbert ; and were both wanting, the certainty that he 
composed the greater part of his immortal poems in two years, from the summer of 1784 to 
the summer of 1786, would be evidence sufficient. The muse must have been strong 
within him, when, in spite of the rains and sleets of the " ever-dropping west" — when in 
defiance of the hot and sweaty brows occasioned by reaping and thrashing — declining 
markets, and showery harvests — the clamour of his laird for his rent, and the tradesman 
for his account, he persevered in song, and sought solace in verse, when all other solace 
was denied him. 



jv*y LIFE OK KOBERT BURNS 

The circumstances under v hich his principal poems were composed, Iiave been related: 
the " Lament of Mailip" found its origin in the catastrophe of a pet ewe ; the " Epis- 
tle to Sillar" was confided by the poet to his brother while they were engaged m weeding 
the kale-yard ; the " Address to the Deil" was suggested by the many strange portraits 
which belief or fear had drawn of Satan, and was repeated by the one brother to the other, 
on the way with their carts to the kiln, for lime ; the " Cotter's Saturday Night" 
originated in the reverence with which the worship of God was conducted in the family 
of the poet's father, and in the solemn tone with which he desired his children to com- 
pose themselves for praise and prayer ; " the Mouse," and its moral companion " the 
Daisy," were the offspring of the incidents which they relate ; and " Death and Doctor 
Hornbook" was conceived at a freemason-meeting, where the hero of the piece had shown 
too much of the pedant, and composed on his way home, after midnight, by the poet, while 
his head was somewhat dizzy with drink. One of the most remarkable of his com- 
positions, the " Jolly Beggars," a drama, to which nothing in the language of either the 
North or South can be compared, and which was unknown till after the death of the 
author, was suggested by a scene which he saw in a low ale-house, into which, on a 
Saturday-night, most of the sturdy beggars of the district had met to sell their meal, 
pledge their superfluous rags, and drink their gains. It may be added, that he loved 
to walk in solitary spots ; that his chief musing-ground was the banks of the Ayr : the 
season most congenial to his fancy that of winter, when the winds were heard in the 
leafless woods, and the voice of the swollen streams came from vale and hill ; and that 
he seldom composed a whole poem at once, but satisfied with a few fervent verses, laid 
the subject aside, till the muse summoned him to another exertion of fancy. In a little 
back closet, still existing in the farm-house of Mossgiel, he committed most of his poems 
to paper. 

But while the poet rose, the farmer sank. It was not the cold clayey bottom of his 
ground, nor the purchase of unsound seed-corn, nor the fluctuation in the markets alone, 
which injured him ; neither was it the taste for freemason socialities, nor a desire to join 
the mirth of comrades, either of the sea or the shore ; neither could it be wholly imputed 
to his passionate following of the softer sex — indulgence in the " illicit rove," or giving 
way to his eloquence at the feet of one whom he loved and honoured ; other farmers 
indulged in the one, or suffered from the other, yet were prosperous. His want of suc- 
cess arose from other causes; his heart was not with his task, save by fits and starts. 
he felt he was designed for higher purposes than ploughing, and harrowing, and sowing, 
and reaping : when the sun called on him, after a showier, to come to the plough, or 
when the ripe corn invited the sickle, or the ready market called for the measured 
grain, the poet was under other spells, and was slow to avail himself of those golden 
moments, which come but once in the season. To this may be added, a too superficial 
knowledge of the art of farming, and a want of intimacy witli the nature of the soil he was 
called to cultivate. He could speak fluently of leas, and faughs, and fallows, of change of 
seed, and rotation of crops, but practical knowledge and application were required, and 
in these Burns was deficient. The moderate gain which those dark days of agriculture 
brought to the economical farmer, was not obtained: the close, the all but niggardly 
care by which he could win and Keep his crown- pieces, — gold was seldom in the fanner's 



LIFK OF ROBERT BURNS XV 

band, — was either above or below the mind of the poet ; and Mossgiel, which, in the 
hands of an assiduous fanner, might have made a reasonable return for labour, wa9 
unproductive, under one who had little skill, less economy, and no taste for the task. 

Other reasons for his failure have been assigned. It is to the credit of the moral senti- 
ments of the husbandmen of Scotland, that when one of their class forgets what virtue re- 
quires, and dishonours, without reparation, even the humblest of the maidens, he is not 
allowed to go unpunished. No proceedings take place, perhaps one hard word is not 
spoken ; but he is regarded with loathing by the old and the devout ; he is looked on by 
all with cold and reproachful eyes — sorrow is foretold as his lot, sure disaster as his for- 
tune ; and if these chance to arrive, the only sympathy expressed is, " What better could 
he expect ?" Something of this sort befel Burns : he had already satisfied the kirk in the 
matter of " Sonsie, smirking, dear-bought Bess," his daughter, by one of his mother's 
maids; and now, to use his own words, he was brought within point-blank of the heaviest 
metal of the kirk by a similar folly. The fair transgressor, both for her father's sake and 
her own youth, had a large share of public sympathy. Jean Armour, for it is of her I 
speak, was in her eighteenth year ; with dark eyes, a handsome foot, and a melodious 
tongue, she made her way to the poet's heart — and, as their stations in life were equal, it 
seemed that they had only to be satisfied themselves to render their union easy. But her 
father, in addition to being a very devout man, was a zealot of the Old Light ; and Jean, 
dreading his resentment, was willing, while she loved its unforgiven satirist, to love him 
in secret, in the hope that the time would come when she might safely avow it : she ad 
mitted the poet, therefore, to her company in lonesome places, and walks beneath the 
moon, where they both forgot themselves, and were at last obliged to own a private mar- 
riage as a protection from kirk censure. The professors of the Old Light rejoiced, 
since it brought a scoffing rhymer within reach of their hand ; but her father felt a two- 
fold sorrow, because of the shame of a favourite daughter, and for having committed the 
folly with one both loose in conduct and profane of speech. He had cause to be angry, 
but his anger, through his zeal, became tyrannous : in the exercise of what he called a 
father's power, he compelled his child to renounce the poet as her husband and burn the 
marriage-lines ; for he regarded her marriage, without the kirk's permission, with a man so 
utterly cast away, as a worse crime than her folly. So blind is anger ! She could renounce 
neither her husband nor his offspring in a lawful way, and in spite of the destruction of 
the marriage-lines, and renouncing the name of wife, she was as much Mrs. Burns as 
marriage could make her. No one concerned seemed to think so. Burns, who loved her 
tenderly, went all but mad when she renounced him : he gave up his share of Mossgiel to 
his brother, and roamed, moody and idle, about the land, with no better aim in life than a 
situation in one of our western sugar-isles, and a vague hope of distinction as a poet. 

How the distinction which he desired as a poet was to be obtained was, to a poor bard 
in a provincial place, a sore puzzle : there were no enterprising booksellers in the 
western land, and it was not to be expected that the printers of either Kilmarnock or 
Paisley had money to expend on a speculation in rhyme : it is much to the honour of his 
native county that the publication which he wished for was at last made easy. The best 
of his poems, in his own hand-writing, had found their way into the hands of the Ballan- 
tynes, Hamiltons, Tark^rs. and Mackenzies, and were much admired. Mrs. Stewart, of Stair 



XVI • LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

aud Afton, a lady of distinction and taste, had made, accidentally, the acquaintance both 
of Burns and some of his songs, and was ready to befriend him ; and so favourable was 
the impression on all hands, that a subscription, sufficient to defray the outlay of paper 
and print, was soon filled up — one hundred copies being subscribed for by the 
Parkers alone. He soon arranged materials for a volume, and put them into the handy 
of a printer in Kilmarnock, the Wee Johnnie of one of his biting epigrams. Johnnie was 
startled at the unceremonious freedom of most of the pieces, and asked the poet to cone 
pose one of modest language and moral aim, to stand at the beginning, and excuse some 
of those free ones which followed : Burns, whose " Twa Dogs" was then incomplete, 
finished the poem at a sitting, and put it in the van, much to his printer's satisfaction. 
If the " Jolly Beggars" was omitted for any other cause than its freedom of sentiment and 
language, or "Death and Doctor Hornbook" from any other feeling than that of being too 
personal, the causes of their exclusion have remained a secret. It is less easy to account 
for the omission of many songs of high merit, which he had among his papers; 
perhaps he thought those which he selected were sufficient to test the taste of the 
public. Before he printed the whole, he, with the consent of his brother, altered his 
name from Burness to Burns, a change which, I am told, he in after years regretted. 

In the summer of the year 1786 the little volume, big with the hopes and fortunes of 
the bard, made its appearance : it was entitled simply, " Poems, chiefly in the Scottish 
Dialect ; by Robert Burns " and accompanied by a modest preface, saying, that he sub- 
mitted his book to his country with fear and with trembling, since it contained little of 
the art of poesie, and at the best was but a voice given, rude, he feared, and uncouth, to 
the loves, the hopes, and the fears of his own bosom. Had a summer sun risen on a 
winter morning it could not have surprised the Lowlands of Scotland more than this 
Kilmarnock volume surprised and delighted the people, one and all. The milkmaid sang 
nis songs, the ploughman repeated his poems ; the old quoted both, and even the devout 
rejoiced that idle verse had at last mixed a tone of morality with its mirth. The volume 
penetrated even into Nithsdale. " Keep it out of the way of your children," said a 
Cameronian divine, when he lent it to my father, " lest ye find them, as I found mine, 
reading it on the Sabbath." No wonder that such a volume made its way to the hearts 
of a peasantry whose taste in poetry has been the marvel of many writers : the poems 
were mostly on topics with which they were familiar : the language was that of the fire- 
side, raised above the vulgarities of common life, by a purifying spirit of expression and 
the exalting fervour of inspiration : and there was such a brilliant and graceful mix- 
ture of the elegant and the homely, the lofty and the low, the familiar and the elevated, 
— such a rapid succession of scenes which moved to tenderness or tears ; or to subdued 
mirth or open laughter — unlooked for allusions to scripture, or touches of sarcasm and 
scandal — of superstitions to scare, and of humour to delight — while through the whole was 
diffused, as the scent of flowers through summer air, a moral meaning — a sentimentat 
beauty, which sweetened and sanctified all. The poet's expectations from this little ven- 
ture were humble : he hoped as much money from it as would pay for his passage to the 
West Indies, where he proposed to enter into the service of some of the Scottish settlers, 
and help to manage the double mystery of sugar-making and slavery. 

The hearty applause which I have recorded came chiefly from the husbandman "the 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. X\ll 

shepherd and the mechanic : the approbation of the magnates of the west, though not less 
warm, was longer in coming. Mrs. Stewart of Stair, indeed, commended the poems and 
cheered their author : Dugald Stewart received his visits with pleasure, and wondered at 
his vigour of conversation as much as at his muse : the door of the house of Hamilton 
was open to him, where the table was ever spread, and the hand ever ready to help : 
Tvtiile the purses of the Ballantynes and the Parkers were always as open to him as were 
the doors of their houses. Those persons must be regarded as the real patrons of the 
poet : the high names of the district are not to be found among those who helped him 
with purse and patronage in 1786, that year of deep distress and high distinction. The 
Montgomcries came with their praise when his fame was up ; the Kennedys and the 
Boswells were silent : and though the Cunninghams gave effectual aid, it was when 
the muse was crying with a loud voice before him, "Come all and see the man whom I 
delight to honour." It would be unjust as well as ungenerous not to mention the name 
of Mrs. Dunlop among the poet's best and early patrons : the distance at which she 
lived from Mossgiel had kept his name from her till his poems appeared : but his works 
induced her to desire his acquaintance, and she became his wannest and surest friend. 

To say the truth, Burns endeavoured in every honourable way to obtain the notice of 
those who had influence in the land : he copied out the best of his unpublished poems in 
a fair hand, and inserting them in his printed volume, presented it to those who 
seemed slow to buy : he rewarded the notice of this one with a song — the atten- 
tions of that one with a sally of encomiastic verse : he left psalms of his own composing 
in the manse when he feasted with a divine : he enclosed " Holy "Willie's Prayer," with 
an injunction to be grave, to one who loved mirth : he sent the " Holy Fair" to one whom 
he invited to drink a gill out of a mutchkin stoup, at Mauchline market ; and on accident- 
ally meeting with Lord Daer, he immediately commemorated the event in a sally of verse, 
of a strain more free and yet as flattering as ever flowed from the lips of a court bard. 
While musing over the names of those on whom fortune had smiled, yet who had neg- 
lected to smile on him, he remembered that he had met Miss Alexander, a young beauty 
of the west, in the walks of Ballochmyle; and he recorded the impression which this fair 
vision made on him in a song of unequalled elegance and melody. He had met her in the 
woods in July, on the 18th of November he sent her the song, and reminded her of 
the circumstance from which it arose, in a letter which it is evident he had laboured to 
render polished and complimentary. The young lady took no notice of either the song 
or the poet, though willing, it is said, to hear of both now : — this seems to have been the 
last attempt he made on the taste or the sympathies of the gentry of his native district : 
for on the very day following we find him busy in making arrangements for his departure 
to Jamaica. 

For this step Burns had more than sufficient reasons : the profits of his volume amounted 
to little more than enough to waft him across the Atlantic : Wee Johnnie, though the 
edition was all sold, refused to risk another on speculation : his friends, both Bal- 
lantynes and Parkers, volunteered to relieve the printer's anxieties, but the poet declined 
their bounty, and gloomily indented himself in a ship about to sail from Greenock, and 
called on his muse to take farewell of Caledonia, in the last song he ever expected to mea- 
sure in his native land. That fine lyric, beginning " The gloomy night is gathering fast t " 



XV1U LIFE OF ROBERT BURN,S. 

was the offspring of these moments of regret and sorrow. His feelings were not express^ 
in song alone : he remembered his mother and his natural daughter, and made an assign- 
ment of all that pertained to him at Mossgiel — and that was but little — and of all the 
advantage which a cruel, unjust, and insulting law allowed in the proceeds of his poems, 
for their support and behoof. This document was publicly read in the presence of the 
poet, at the market-cross of Ayr, by his friend William Chalmers, a notary public. Ever 
this step was to Burns one of danger : some ill-advised person had uncoupled the merci- 
less pack of the law at his heels, and he was obliged to shelter himself as he best could, in 
woods, it is said, by day and in barns by night, till the final hour of his departure came. 
That hour arrived, and his chest was on the way to the ship, when a letter was put into 
his hand which seemed to light him to brighter prospects. 

Among the friends whom his merits had procured him was Dr. Laurie, a district cler- 
gyman, who had taste enough to admire the deep sensibilities as well as the humour of 
the poet, and the generosity to make known both his works and his worth to the warm- 
hearted and amiable Blacklock, who boldly proclaimed him a poet of the first rank, and 
lamented that he was not in Edinburgh to publish another edition of his poems. Burns 
was ever a man of impulse : he recalled his chest from Greenock ; he relinquished 
the situation he had accepted on the estate of one Douglas; took a secret leave of his 
mother, and, without an introduction to any one, and unknown personally to all, save to 
Dugald Stewart, away he walked, through Glenap, to Edinburgh, full of new hope and 
confiding in his genius. When he arrived, he scarcely knew what to do : he hesitated to 
call on the professor ; he refrained from making himself known, as it has been supposed 
he did, to the enthusiastic Blacklock ; but, sitting down in an obscure lodging, he sought 
out an obscure printer, recommended by a humble comrade from Kyle, and began to 
uegociate for a new edition of the Poems of the Ayrshire Ploughman. This was not the 
way to go about it : his barge had well nigh been shipwrecked in the launch ; and he 
might have lived to regret the letter which hindered his voyage to Jamaica, had he not met 
by chance in the street a gentleman of the west, of the name of Dalzell, who introduced him 
to the Earl of Glencairn, a nobleman whose classic education did not hurt his taste for Scot- 
tish poetry, and who was not too proud to lend his helping hand to a rustic stranger of 
such merit as Burns. Cunningham carried him to Creech, then the Murray of Edin- 
burgh, a shrewd man of business, who opened the poet's eyes to his true interests : the 
first proposals, then all but issued, were put in the fire, and new ones printed and 
diffused over the island. The subscription was headed by half the noblemen of the north : 
the Caledonian Hunt, through the interest of Glencairn, took six hundred copies : duch- 
esses and countesses swelled the list, and such a crowding to write down names had not 
been witnessed since the signing of the solemn league and covenant. 

While the subscription-papers were filling and the new volume printing on a paper 
and in a type worthy of such high patronage, Burns remained in Edinburgh, where, 
for the winter season, he was a lion, and one of an unwonted kind. Philosophers, histo- 
rians, and scholars had shaken the elegant coteries of the city with their wit, or enlight- 
ened them with their learning, but they were all men who had been polished by polite 
letters or by intercourse with high life, and there was a sameness in their very dress as 
well as address, of which peers and peeresses had become weary They therefore wei- 



MVK OF ROBERT ftlTRNS XIX 

coined this rustic candidate for the honour of giving wings to their hours of lassitude and 
weariness, with a welcome more than common; and when his approach was announced, tiio 
polished circle looked foi the advent of a lout from the plough, in whose uncouth manners 
and embarrassed address they might find matter both for mirth and wonder. But they 
met with a barbarian who was not at all barbarous : as the poet met in Lord Daer feelings 
and sentiments as natural as those of a ploughman, so they met in a ploughman manners 
worthy of a lord : his air was easy and unperplexed : his address was perfectly well- 
bred, and elegant in its simplicity : he felt neither eclipsed by the titled nor struck dumb 
before the learned and the eloquent, but took his station with the ease and grace of one 
born to it In. the society of men alone he spoke out : he spared neither his wit, his 
humour, nor his sarcasm — he seemed to say to all — ' I am a man, and you are no more ; 
and why should I not act and speak like one V — it was remarked, however, that he had 
not learnt, or did not desire, to conceal his emotions — that he commended with more rap- 
ture than was courteous, and contradicted with more bluntness than was accounted polite. 
It was thus with hiin ill the company of men : when woman approached, his look altered, 
his eve beamed milder ; all that was stern in his nature underwent a change, and he re- 
ceived them with deference, but with a consciousness that he could win their attention as 
he had won that of others who differed, indeed, from them only in the texture of their 
kirtles. This natural power of rendering himself acceptable to women had been observed 
and envied by Sillar, one of the dearest of his early comrades ; and it stood him in good 
stead now, when he was the object to whom the Duchess of Gordon, the loveliest as well 
as the wittiest of women — directed her discourse. Burns, she afterwards said, won the 
attention of the Edinburgh ladies by a deferential way of address — by an ease and natural 
grace of manners, as new as it was unexpected — that he told them the stories of some of 
his tenderest songs or liveliest poems in a style quite magical*— enriching his little narra- 
tives, which had one and all the merit of being short, with personal incidents of humour 
or of pathos. 

In a party, when Dr. Blair and Professor Walker were present, Burns related the cir- 
cumstances under which he had composed his melancholy song, " The gloomy night is 
gathering fast," in a way even more touching than the verses : and in the company of 
the ruling beauties of the time, he hesitated not to lift the veil from some of the tenderer 
parts of his own history, and give them glimpses of the romance of rustic life. A lady of 
birth — one of his most willing listeners — used, I am told, to say, that she should never 
forget the tale which he related of his affection for Mary Campbell, his Highland Mary, 
as he loved to call her. She was fair, he said, and affectionate, and as guileless as she 
was" beautiful ; and beautiful he thought her in a very high degree. The first time he 
saw her was during one of his musing walks in the woods of Montgomery Castle : and the 
first time he spoke to her was during the merriment of a harvest-kirn. There were others 
there who admired her, but he addressed her, and had the luck to win her regard from them 
all. He soon found that she was the lass whom he had long sought, but never before 
found — that her good looks were surpassed by her good sense ; and her good s^nse was 
equalled by her discretion and modesty. He met her frequently : she saw by his looks 
that he was sincere ; she put full trust in his love, and used to wander with him among 
ta<? green knowes and stream -banks till the sun went down and the moon rose, talking. 



XX LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

dreaming of love and the golden days which awaited them. He was poor, and she had 
only her half-year's fee, for she was in the condition of a servant ; but thoughts of gear 
never darkened their dream : they resolved to wed, and exchanged vows of constancy 
and love. They plighted their vows on the Sabbath to render them more sacred — they 
made them by a burn, where they had courted, that open nature might be a witness— 
they made them over an open Bible, to show that they thought of God in this mutual 
act — and when they had done they both took water in their hands, and scattered it in the 
air, to intimate that as the stream was pure so were their intentions. They parted when 
they did this, but they parted never to meet more : she died in a burning fever, during a 
visit to her relations to prepare for her marriage ; and all that he had of her was a lock of 
her long bright hair, and her Bible, which she exchanged for his. 

Even with the tales which he related of rustic love and adventure his own story 
mingled ; and ladies of rank heard, for the first time, that in all that was romantic in the 
passion of love, and in all that was chivalrous in sentiment, men of distinction, both by 
education and birth, were at least equalled by the peasantry of the land. They listened 
with interest, and inclined their feathers beside the bard, to hear how love went on in the 
west, and in no case it ran quite smooth. Sometimes young hearts were kept asunder by the 
sordid feelings of parents, who could not be persuaded to bestow their daughter, perhaps 
an only one, on a wooer who could not count penny for penny, and number cow for cow : 
sometimes a mother desired her daughter to look higher than to one of her station ; for her 
beauty and her education entitled her to match among the lairds, rather than the tenants ; 
and sometimes, the devotional tastes of both father and mother, approving of personal 
looks and connexions, were averse to see a daughter bestow her hand on one, whose lan- 
guage in religion was indiscreet, and whose morals were suspected. Yet, neither the 
vigilance of fathers, nor the suspicious care of aunts and mothers, could succeed in keep- 
ing those asunder whose hearts were together ; but in these meetings circumspection, 
and invention were necessary : all fears were to be lulled by the seeming carelessness of 
the lass, — all perils were to be met and braved by the spirit of the lad. His home, 
perhaps, was at a distance, and he had wild woods to come through, and deep streams 
to pass, before he could see the signal-light, now shown and now withdrawn, at her 
window; he had to approach with a quick eye and a wary foot, lest a father or a 
brother should see, and deter him : he had sometimes to wish for a cloud upon the moon, 
whose light, welcome to him on his way in the distance, was likely to betray him when 
near; and he not unfrequently reckoned a wild night of wind and rain as a blessing, 
since it helped to conceal his coming, and proved to his mistress that he was ready to 
brave all for her sake. Of rivals met and baffled ; of half- willing and half-unconsenting 
maidens, persuaded and won ; of the light-hearted and the careless becoming affectionate 
and tender; and the coy, the proud, and the satiric being gained by " persuasive words, 
and more persuasive sighs," as dames had been gained of old, he had tales enow. The 
ladies listened, and smiled at the tender narratives of the poet. 

Of his appearance among the sons as well as the daughters of men, we have the 
account of Dugald Stewart. "Burns," says the philosopher, " came to Edinburgh early 
in the winter; the attention which he received from all ranks and descriptions of 
personz, were such as would have turned any head but his own. He retained the same 



LIFK OF ROBERT 11 URNS. vy^ 

simplicity of manners and appearance which had struck me so forcibly when I iirst saw 
him in the country : his dress was suited to his station ; plain and unpretending, with 
sufficient attention to neatness : he always wore boots, and when on more than usual 
ceremony, buckskin breeches. His manners were manly, simple, and independent ; 
strongly expressive of conscious genius and worth, but without any indication of for- 
wardness, arrogance, or vanity. He took his share in conversation, but not more than 
belonged to him, and listened with apparent deference on subjects where his want of 
education deprived him of the means of information. If there had been a little more cf 
gentleness and accommodation in his temper, he would have been still more interesting ; 
but he had been accustomed to give law in the circle of his ordinary acquaintance, and 
his dread of any thing approaching to meanness or servility, rendered his manner some- 
what decided and hard. Nothing perhaps was more remarkable among his various 
attainments, than the fluency and precision and originality of language, when he spoke 
in company ; more particularly as he aimed at purity in his turn of expression, and 
avoided more successfully than most Scotsmen, the peculiarities of Scottish phraseology. 
From his conversation I should have pronounced him to have been fitted to excel in 
whatever walk of ambition he had chosen to exert his abilities. He was passionately 
fond of the beauties of nature, and I recollect he once told me, when I was admiring a 
distant prospect in one of our morning walks, that the sight of so many smoking .cottages 
gave a pleasure to his mind, which none could understand who had not witnessed, like 
himself, the happiness and worth which cottages contained." 

Such was the impression which Burns made at first on the fair, the titled, and the 
learned of Edinburgh ; an impression which, though lessened by intimacy and closer ex- 
amination, on the part of the men, remained unimpaired, on that of the softer sex, till Ins 
dying-day. His company, during the season of balls and festivities, continued to be courted 
by all who desired to be reckoned gay or polite. Cards of invitation fell thick on him ; 
he was not more welcome to the plumed and jewelled groups, whom her fascinating 
Grace of Gordon gathered about her, than he was to the grave divines and polished 
scholars, who assembled in the rooms of Stewart, or Blair, or Robertson. The classic 
socialities of Tytler, afterwards Lord Woodhouslee, or the elaborate supper- tables of the 
whimsical Monboddo, whose guests imagined they were entertained in the manner of Lu- 
cullus or of Cicero, were not complete without the presence of the ploughman of Kyle ; 
and the feelings of the rustic poet, facing such companies, though of surprise and delight at 
first, gradually subsided he said, as he discerned, that man differed from man only in the 
polish, and not in the grain. But Edinburgh offered tables and entertainers of a less 
orderly and staid character than those I have named — where the glass circulated with 
greater rapidity ; where the wit flowed more freely ; and where there were neither high- 
bred ladies to charm conversation within the bounds of modesty, nor serious philosophers, 
nor grave divines, to set a limit to the licence of speech, or the hours of enjoyment. To 
these companions — and these were all of the better classes, the levities of the rustic poet's 
wit and humour were as welcome as were the tenderest of his narratives to the accomplished 
Duchess of Gordon and the beautiful Miss Burnet of Monboddo : they raised a social 
roar not at all classic, and demanded and provoked his sallies of wild humour, or 
indecorous mirth, with as much delight as he had witnessed among the lads of Kyle. 



XA1J LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

when, at mill or forge, his humorous sallies abounded as the ale flowed. In thestf 
enjoyments the rough, but learned William Micol, and the young and amiable 
Robert Ainslie shared : the name of the poet was coupled with those of profane wits, free 
livers, and that class of half-idle gentlemen who hang about the courts of law, or for a 
season or two wear the livery of Mars, and handle cold iron. 

Edinburgh had still another class of genteel convivialists, to whom the poet was at- 
tracted by principles as well as by pleasure ; these were the relics of that once nume- 
rous body, the Jacobites, who still loved to cherish the feelings of birth or education, 
rather than of judgment, and toasted the name of Stuart, when the last of the race had 
renounced his pretensions to a throne, for the sake of peace and the cross Young 
men then, and high names were among them, annually met on the pretender's 
birth-day, and sang songs in which the white rose of Jacobitism flourished ; toasted 
toasts announcing adherence to the male line of the Bruce and the Stuart, and listened 
to the strains of the laureate of the day, who prophesied, in drink, the dismissal of the 
intrusive Hanoverian, by the right and might of the righteous and disinherited line, 
Burns, who was descended from a northern race, whose father was suspected 
of having drawn the claymore in 1745, and who loved the blood of the Keith- 
Marishalls, under whose banners his ancestors had marched, readily united himself to 
a band in whose sentiments, political and social, he was a sharer. -He was received with 
acclamation : the dignity of laureate was conferred upon him, and his inauguration ode, 
in which he recalled the names and the deeds of the Grahams, the Erskines, the 
Boyds, and the Gordons, was applauded for its fire, as well as for its sentiments. Yet 
though he ate and drank and sang with Jacobites, he was only, as far as sympathy and 
poesie went, of their number : his reason renounced the principles and the religion of the 
Stuart line ; and though he shed a tear over their fallen fortunes — though he sympathized 
with the brave and honourable names that perished in their cause — though he cursed " the 
butcher, Cumberland," and the bloody spirit which commanded the heads of the good and 
the heroic to be stuck where they would affright the passer-by, and pollute the air — he 
had no desire to see the splendid fabric of constitutional freedom, which the united genius 
of all parties had raised, thrown wantonly down. His Jacobitism influenced, not his head, 
but his heart, and gave a mournful hue to many of his lyric compositions. 

Meanwhile his poems were passing through the press. Burns made a few, emendations 
of those published in the Kilmarnock edition, and he added others which, as he expressed 
it, he had carded and spun, since he passed Glenbuck. Some rather coarse lines were 
softened or omitted in the " Twa Dogs ;" others, from a change of his personal feelings, 
were made in the " Vision :" " Death and Doctor Hornbook," excluded before, was admitted 
now : the " Dream" was retained, in spite of the remonstrances of Mrs. Stewart, of Stair, 
and Mrs. Dunlop; and the " Brigs of Ayr," in compliment to his patrons in his native dis- 
trict, and the " Address to Edinburgh," in honour of his titled and distinguished friends 
in that metropolis, were printed for the first time. He was unwilling to alter what he 
had once printed : his friends, classic, titled, and rustic, found him stubborn and unpliable, 
in matters of criticism ; yet he was generally of a complimental mood : he loaded the robe of 
Coila in the "Vision," with more scenes than it could well, contain, that he might include 
in the landscape, all the country-seats of his friends, and he gave more than their share of 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. XX111 

commendation to the Wallaces, out of respect to his friend, Mrs. Dunlop. Of the critics of 
Edinburgh he said, they spun the thread of their criticisms so fine that it was unfit for eitiier 
warp or weft ; and of its scholars, he said, they were never satisfied with any Scottish poet, 
unless they could trace him in Plorace. One morning at Dr. Blair's breakfast-table, when 
the " Holy Fair" was the subject of conversation, the reverend critic said, " Why should 

' Moodie speel. the holy door 

With tidings of salvation?' 

if you had said, with tidings of damnation, the satire would have been the better, and the 
bitterer." " Excellent !" exclaimed the poet, "" the alteration is capital, and I hope you 
will honour me by allowing me to say in a note at whose suggestion it was made." Pro 
fessor Walker, who tells the anecdote, adds that Blair evaded, with equal good humour and 
decision, this not very polite request ; nor was this the only slip which the poet made 
on this occasion : some one asked him in which of the churches of Edinburgh he had re- 
ceived the highest gratification : he named the High-church, but gave the preference over 
all preachers to Robert Walker, the colleague and rival in eloquence of Dr. Blair him- 
self, and that in a tone so pointed and decisive as to make all at the table stare and 
look embarrassed. The poet confessed afterwards that he never reflected on his blunder 
without pain and mortification. Blair probably had this in his mind, when, on reading 
the poem beginning " When Guildford good our pilot stood," he exclaimed, " Ah ! the 
politics of Burns always smell of the smithy," meaning, that they were vulgar and 
common. 

In April, the second or Edinburgh, edition was published : it was widely purchased, 
and as warmly commended. The country had been prepared for it by the generous and 
discriminating criticisms of Henry Mackenzie, published in that popular periodical, " The 
Lounger," where he says, " Burns possesses the spirit as well as the fancy of a poet ; that 
honest pride and independence of soul, which are sometimes the muse's only dower, break 
forth on every occasion, in his works." The praise of the author of the " Man of Feeling" 
was not more felt by Burns, than it w T as by the whole island : the harp of the north had not 
been swept for centuries by a hand so forcible, and at the same time so varied, that it awakened 
every tone, whether of joy or woe : the language was that of rustic life ; the scenes of the 
poems were the dusty barn, the clay-floored reeky cottage, and the furrowed field ; and 
the characters were cowherds, ploughmen, and mechanics. The volume was embellished 
by a head of the poet, from the hand of the now venerable Alexander Nasmyth ; and in- 
troduced by a dedication to the noblemen and gentlemen of the Caledonian Hunt, in a 
style of vehement independence, unknown hitherto in the history of subscriptions. The 
whole work, verse, prose, and portrait, won public attention, and kept it : and though 
some critics signified their displeasure at expressions which bordered on profanity, and at 
a licence of language which they pronounced impure, by far the greater number united their 
praise to the all but general voice ; nay, some scrupled not to call him, from his perfect 
ease and nature and variety, the Scottish Shakspeare. No one rejoiced more in his sue 
cess and his fame, than the matron of Mossgiel. 

Other matters than his poems and socialities claimed the attention of Burns in Edin- 
burgh. He had a hearty relish for the joyous genius of Allan Ramsay; he traced 



KKIY LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

out his residences, and rejoiced to think that while he stood in the shop of his own book 
seller, Creech, the same floor had been trod by the feet of his great forerunner. He 
visited, too, the lowly grave of the unfortunate Robert Fergusson ; and it must be 
recorded to the shame of the magistrates of Edinburgh, that they allowed him to 
erect a headstone to his memory, and to the scandal of Scotland, that in such a memorial 
he had not been anticipated. He seems not to have regarded the graves of scholars or 
philosophers ; and he trod the pavements where the warlike princes and nobles had walked 
without any emotion. He loved, however, to see places celebrated in Scottish song, and 
fields where battles for the independence of his country had been stricken ; and, with 
money in his pocket which his poems had produced, and with a letter from a witty but 
weak man, Lord Buchan, instructing him to pull birks on the Yarrow, broom on the 
Oowden-knowes, and not to neglect to admire the ruins of Drybrugh Abbey, Burns set 
out on a border tour, accompanied by Robert Ainslie, of Berrywell. As the poet had 
talked of returning to the plough, Dr. Blair imagined that he was on his way back 
to the furrowed field, and wrote him a handsome farewell, saying he was leaving 
Edinburgh with a character which had survived many temptations ; with a name which 
would be placed with the Ramsays and the Fergussons, and with the hopes of all that, in 
a second volume, on which his fate as a poet would very much depend, he might rise yet 
higher in merit and in fame. Burns, who received this communication when laying his 
leg over the saddle to be gone, is said to have muttered, " Aye, but a mans first book is 
sometimes like his first babe, healthier and stronger than those which follow." 

On the 6th of May, 1 787, Burns reached Berrywell : he recorded of the laird, that he 
was clear-headed, and of Miss Ainslie, that she was amiable and handsome — of Dudgeon, 
the author of " The Maid that tends the Goats," that he had penetration and modesty, 
and of the preacher, Bowmaker, that he was a man of strong lungs and vigorous remark. 
On crossing the Tweed at Coldstream he took off his hat, and kneeling down, repeated 
aloud the two last verses of the " Cotters Saturday Night :" on returning, he drank tea with 
Brydone, the traveller, a man, he said, kind and benevolent : he cursed one Cole as an 
English Hottentot, for having rooted out an ancient garden belonging to a Romish ruin ; 
and he wrote of Macdowal, of Caverton-mill, that by his skill in rearing sheep, he sold his 
flocks, ewe and lamb, for a couple of guineas each : that he washed his sheep before 
shearing — and by his turnips improved sheep-husbandry; he added, that lands were 
generally let at sixteen shillings the Scottish acre ; the farmers rich, and, compared to 
Ayrshire, their houses magnificent. On his way to Jedburgh he visited an old gentleman 
in whose house was an arm-chair, once the property of the author of " The Seasons;" he 
reverently examined the relique, and could scarcely be persuaded to sit in it : he was a 
warm admirer of Thomson. 

In Jedburgh Burns found much to interest him : the ruins of a splendid cathedral, and 
of a strong castle — and, what was still more attractive, an amiable young lady, very hand- 
some, with " beautiful hazel eyes, full of spirit, sparkling with delicious moisture," and 
looks which betokened a high order of female mind. He gave her his portrait, and 
entered this remembrance of her attractions among his memoranda: — "My heart is 
thawed into melting pleasure, after being so long frozen up in the Greenland bay of in- 
difference, amid the noise and nonsense of Edinburgh. I am afraid my bosom has nearly 



UFF, OF KOBKltT itOUXS. XX'; 

as much thidor as ever. Jed, pure be thy streams, and hallowed thy sylva.i hanks: 
sweet Isabella Lindsay, may peace dwell in thy bosom uninterrupted, except by the 
tumultuous throbbings of rapturous love !" With the freedom of Jedburgh handsomely be- 
stowed by the magistrates, in his pocket, Burns made his way to Wauchope, the 
residence of Mrs. Scott, who had welcomed him into the world as a poet in verses lively 
and graceful : he found her, he said, " a lady of sense and taste, and of a decision peculiar 
to female authors." After dining with Sir Alexander Don, who, he said, was a clever 
man, but far from a match for his divine lady, a sister of his patron Glencairn, he spent 
an hour among the beautiful ruins of Dryburgh Abbey ; glanced on the splendid remains 
of Melrose ; passed, unconscious of the future, over that ground on which have arisen the 
romantic towers of Abbotsford ; dined with certain of the Souters of Selkirk ; and visited 
the old keep of Thomas the Rhymer, and a dozen of the hills and streams celebrated in 
song. Nor did he fail to pay his respects, after returning through Dunse, to Sir James 
Hall, of Dunglass, and his lady, and was much pleased with the scenery of their romantic 
place. He was now joined by a gentleman of the name of Kerr, and crossing the Tweed 
a second time, penetrated into England, as far as the ancient town of Newcastle, where he 
smiled at a facetious Northumbrian, who at dinner caused the beef to be eaten before the 
broth was served, in obedience to an ancient injunction, lest the hungry Scotch should 
come and snatch it. On his way back he saw, what proved to be prophetic of his own 
fortune — the roup of an unfortunate farmer's stock : he took out his journal, and wrote 
with a troubled brow, " Rigid economy, and decent industry, do you preserve me from 
being the principal dramatis personce, in such a scene of horror." He extended his tour to 
Carlisle, and from thence to the banks of the Nith, where he looked at the farm of Ellisland, 
with the intention of trying once more his fortune at the plough, should poetry and pa- 
tronage fail him. 

On his way through the "West, Burns spent a few days with his mother at Mossgiel : 
he had left her an unknown and an almost banished man : he returned in fame and 
in sunshine, admired by all who aspired to be thought tasteful or refined. He felt 
offended alike with the patrician stateliness of Edinburgh and the plebeian servility 
of the husbandmen of Ayrshire ; and dreading the influence of the unlucky star which 
had hitherto ruled his lot, he bought a pocket Milton, he said, for the purpose of 
studying the intrepid independence and daring magnanimity, and noble defiance of hard- 
ships exhibited by Satan ! In this mood he reached Edinburgh — only to leave it again on 
three hurried excursions into the Highlands. The route which he took and the sentiments 
which the scenes awakened, are but faintly intimated in the memoranda which he made 
His first journey seems to have been performed in ill-humour ; at Stirling his jacobitism 
provoked at seeing the ruined palace of the Stuarts, broke out in some unloyal lines 
which he had the indiscretion to write with a diamond on the window of a public inn. 
At Carron, where he was refused a sight of the magnificent foundry, he avenged himself 
in epigram. At Inverary he resented some real or imaginary neglect on the part of his 
Grace of Argyll, by a stinging lampoon ; nor can he be said to have fairly regained his 
serenity of temper, till he danced his wrath away with some Highland ladies at Dum- 
barton. 

His second excursion was made in the company of Dr. Adair, of Harrowgate : the reluc- 

h 



&*„ , LlhL OF ROBEKT BURNS- 

tant doors of Carron foundry were opened to him, and he expressed his wonder at the 
blazing furnaces and broiling labours of the place : he removed the disloyal lines from the 
window of the inn at Stirling, and he paid a two days' visit to Ramsay of Ochtertyre, a 
distinguished scholar, and discussed with him future topics for the muse. " I have been 
in the company of many men of genius," said Ramsay afterwards to Currie, " some of 
them poets, but never witnessed such flashes of intellectual brightness as from him — the im- 
pulse of the moment, sparks of celestial fire." From the Forth he went to the Devon, in 
the county of Clackmannan, where, for the first time, he saw the beautiful Charlotte Ham- 
ilton, the sister of his friend Gavin Hamilton, of Mauchline. " She is not only beautiful," 
he thus writes to her brother, " but lovely : her form is elegant, her features not regular, 
but they have the smile of sweetness, and the settled complacency of good nature in the 
hiohest deo-ree. Her eyes are fascinating ; at once expressive of good sense, tenderness 
and a noble mind. After the exercise of our riding to the Falls, Charlotte was exactly 
Dr Donne's mistress : — 

" Her pure and eloquent blood 
Spoke in her cheeks, and so distinctly wrought, 
That one would almost say her body thought." 

Accompanied by this charming dame, he visited an old lady, Mrs. Bruce, of Clackman- 
nan, who, in the belief that she had the blood of the royal Bruce in her veins, received 
the poet with something of princely state, and half in jest, conferred the honour of 
knighthood upon him, with her ancestor's sword, saying, in true jacobitical mood, that 
she had a better right to do that than some folk had ! In the same pleasing company 
he visited the famous cataract on the Devon, called the Cauldron Linn, and the Rum- 
bling bridge, a single arch thrown, it is said by the devil, over the Devon, at the height of 
a hundred feet in the air. It was the complaint of his companions that Burns exhibited 
no raptures, and poured out no unpremeditated verses at such magnificent scenes. But 
he did not like to be tutored or prompted : " Look look !" exclaimed some one, as Carron 
foundry belched forth flames — " look, Burns, look ! good heavens, what a grand sight ! — ■ 
look !" " I would not look — look, sir, at your bidding," said the bard, turning awav. 
" were it into the mouth of hell !" When he visited, at a future time, the romantic Linn of 
Creehope, in Nithsdale, he looked silently at its wonders, and showed none of the hoped- 
for rapture, " You do not admire it, I fear," said a gentleman who accompanied him i 
'•' I could not admire it more, sir," replied Burns, " if He who made it were to desire me 
to do it." There are other reasons for the silence of Burns amid the scenes of the Devon : 
lie was charmed into love by the sense and the beauty of Charlotte Hamilton, and rendered 
her homage in that sweet song, " The Banks of the Devon," and in a dozen letters written 
with more than his usual care, elegance, and tenderness. But the lady was neither to be 
won by verse nor by prose : she afterwards gave nei hand to Adair, the poet's companion, 
and what was less meritorious, threw his letters into the fire. 

The third and last tour into the North was in the company of Nicol, of the High-School 
of Edinburgh: on the fields of Bannockburn and Falkirk — places of triumph and of woe to 
Scotland, he gave way to patriotic impulses, and in these words he recorded them : — 
M Stirling, August 26, 1 7B7 : this morning I knelt at the tomb of Sir John the Graham 



LIFK OF ROBERT ISU11NS. XXVII 

the gallant friend of the immortal "Wallace; and two hours ago 1 said a fervent prayer 
for old Caledonia, over the hole hi a whinstone where Robert the Bruce fixed his 
royal standard on the banks of Bannockburn." He then proceeded northward by 
Ochtertyre, the water of Earn, the vale of Glen Almond, and the traditionary grave of 
O.ssian. Pie looked in at princely Taymouth ; mused an hour or two among the Birks of 
Aberfeldy ; gazed from Birnam top ; paused amid the wild grandeur of the pass of Kil 
liecrankie, at the stone which rnarkff the spot where a second patriot Graham fell, and 
spent a day at Blair, where he experienced the graceful kindness of the Duke of Athol, 
and in a strain truly elegant, petitioned him, in the name of Bruar Water, to hide the 
utter nakedness of its otherwise picturesque banks, with plantations of birch and oak. 
Quitting Blair he followed the course of the Spey, and passing, as he told his brother, 
through a wild country, among cliffs gray with eternal snows, and glens gloomy and 
savage, reached Findhorn in mist and darkness ; visited Castle Cawdor, where Macbeth 
murdered Duncan ; hastened through Inverness to Urquhart Castle, and the Falls of 
Fyers, and turned southward to Kilravock, over the fatal moor of Culloden. He admired 
the ladies of that classic region for their snooded ringlets, simple elegance of dress, and 
expressive eyes : in Mrs. Rose, of Kilravock Castle, he found that matronly grace and 
dignity which he owned ho loved ; and in the Duke and Duchess of Gordon a renewal 
of that more than kindness with which they had welcomed him in Edinburgh. But 
while he admired the palace of Fochabers, and was charmed by the condescensions of the 
noble proprietors, he forgot that he had left a companion at the inn, too proud and 
captious to be pleased at favours showered on others : he hastened back to the inn with 
an invitation and an apology : he found the fiery pedant in a foaming rage, striding up 
and down the street, cursing in Scotch and Latin the loitering postilions, for not yoking 
the horses, and hurrying him away. All apology and explanation was in vain, and 
Burns, with a vexation which he sought not to conceal, took his seat silently beside the 
irascible pedagogue, and returned to the South by Broughty Castle, the banks of End- 
ermay and Queensferry. He parted with the Highlands in a kindly mood, and loved to 
recal the scenes and the people, both in conversation and in song. 

On his return to Edinburgh he had to bide the time of his bookseller and the public . 
the impression of his poems extending to two thousand eight hundred copies was sold 
widely : much of the money had to come from a distance, and Burns lingered about the 
northern metropolis, expecting a settlement with Creech, and with the hope that those 
who dispensed his country's patronage might remember one who then, as now, was 
reckoned an ornament to the land But Creech, a parsimonious man, was slow in his 
payments ; the patronage of the country was swallowed up in the sink of politics; 
and though noblemen smiled, and ladies of rank nodded their jewelled heads in approba- 
tion of every new song he sung and every witty sally he uttered, they reckoned any 
further notice or care superfluous : the poet, an observant man, saw all this ; but hope 
was the cordial of his heart, he said, and he hoped and lingered on. Too active a genius 
to remain idle, he addressed himself to the twofold business of love and verse. Re- 
pulsed by the stately Beauty of the Devon, he sought consolation in the society of one, 
as fair, and infinitely more witty; and as an accident had for a time deprived him of the 
use of one of his legs, he gave wings to hours of pain, by writing a series of letters to this 



sv in LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

Edinburgh enchantress, in which he signed himself Sylvander, and addressed her nndei 
the name of Clarinda In these compositions, which no one can regard as serious, and 
which James Grahame the poet called " a romance of real Platonic affection," amid much 
affectation both of language and sentiment, and a desire to say fine and startling 
things, we can see the proud heart of the poet throbbing in the dread of being neglected 
or forgotten by his country. - The love which he offers up at the altar of wit and beauty, 
seems assumed and put on, for its rapture is artificial, and its brilliancy that of an icicle : 
no woman was ever wooed and won in that Malvolio way ; and there is no doubt that 
Mrs. M'Lehose felt as much offence as pleasure at this boisterous display of regard. 
In aftertimes he loved to remember her : — when wine circulated, Mrs. Mac was his fa- 
vourite toast. 

During this season he began his lyric contributions to the Musical Museum of 
Johnson, a work which, amid many imperfections of taste and arrangement, contains 
more of the true old music and genuine old songs of Scotland, than any other collection 
with which I am acquainted. Burns gathered oral airs, and fitted them with words 
of mirth or of woe, of tenderness or of humour, with unexampled readiness and felicity; 
he eked out old fragments and sobered down licentious strains so much in the olden 
spirit and feeling, that the new cannot be distinguished from the ancient ; nay, he 
inserted lines and half lines, with such skill and nicety, that antiquarians are perplexed 
to settle which is genuine or which is simulated. Yet with all this he abated none of 
the natural mirth or the racy humour of the lyric muse of Scotland : he did not like 
her the less because she walked like some of the maidens of her strains, high- 
kilted at times, and spoke with the freedom of innocence. In these communications 
we observe how little his border-jaunt among the fountains of ancient song contributed 
either of sentiment or allusion, to his lyrics; and how deeply his strains, whether 
of pity or of merriment, were coloured by what he had seen, and heard, and 
felt in the Highlands. In truth, all that lay beyond the Forth was an undiscovered land 
to him ; while the lowland districts were not only familiar to his mind and eye, but all 
their more romantic vales and hills and streams were already musical in songs of such 
excellence as induced him to dread failure rather than hope triumph. Moreover, 
the Highlands teemed with jacobitical feelings, and scenes hallowed by the blood or 
the sufferings of men heroic, and perhaps misguided ; and the poet, willingly yielding to an 
impulse which was truly romantic, and believed by thousands to be loyal, penned his 
songs on Drumossie, and Killiecrankie, as the spirit of sorrow or of bitterness prevailed 
Though accompanied, during his northern excursions, by friends whose socialities and 
conversation forbade deep thought, or even serious remark, it will be seen by those 
who read his lyrics with care, that his wreath is indebted for some of its fairest flowers 
to the Highlands. 

The second winter of the poet's abode in Edinburgh had now arrived : it opened, as 
might have been expected, with less rapturous welcomes and with more of frosty civility 
than the first. It must be confessed, that indulgence in prolonged socialities, and in com- 
pany which, though clever, could not be called select, contributed to this; nor must it be 
forgotten that his love for the sweeter part of creation was now and then carried beyond 
the limits of poetic respect, and the delicacies of courtesy ; tending to estrange the austere 






LIFE OF ROBERT IUJRNS. XXIX 

ana to lessen the admiration at first common to all. Other causes may be assigned for 
this wane of popularity : he took no care to conceal his contempt for all who depended 
on mere scholarship for eminence, and lie had a perilous knack in sketching with a sar- 
castic hand the characters of the learned and the grave. Some indeed of the high literati 
of the north — Home, the author of Douglas, was one of them — spoke of the po 't as a 
chance, or an accident : and though they admitted that he was a poet, yet he was not one of 
settled grandeur of soul, brightened by study. Burns was probably aware of this : he 
takes occasion in some of his letters to suggest, that the hour may be at hand when he 
shall be accounted by scholars as a meteor, rather than a fixed light, and to suspect that 
the praise bestowed on his genius was partly owing to the humility Of his condition. 
From his lingering so long about Edinburgh, the nobility began to dread a second volume 
by subscription, the learned to regard him as a fierce Theban, who resolved to carry 
all the outworks to the temple of Fame without the labour of making regular approaches ; 
while a third party, and not the least numerous, looked on him with distrust, as one who 
hovered between Jacobite and Jacobin; who disliked the loyal-minded, and loved to lampoon 
the reigning family. Besides, the marvel of the inspired ploughman, had begun to sub- 

le ; the bright gloss of novelty was worn off, and his fault lay in his unwillingness to 
see that he had made all the sport which the Philistines expected, and was required to 
make room for some "salvage" of the season, to paw, and roar, and shake the mane. 
The doors of the titled, which at first opened spontaneous, like those in Milton's heaven, 
were now unclosed for him with a tardy courtesy : he was received with measured 
stateliness, and seldom requested to repeat his visit. Of this changed aspect of things he 
complained to a friend : but his real sorrows were mixed with those of the fancy : — he told 
Mrs. Dunlop with what pangs of heart he was compelled to take shelter in a corner, lest 
the rattling equipage of some gaping blockhead should mangle him in the mire. In 
this land of titles and wealth such querulous sensibilities must have been frequently 
offended. 

Burns, who had talked lightly hitherto of resuming the plough, began now to think 
seriously about it, for he saw it must come to that at last. Miller, of Dalswinton, a 
gentleman of scientific acquirements, and who has the merit of applying the impulse of 
steam to navigation, had offered the poet the choice of his farms, on a fair estate which he 
had purchased on the Nith : aided by a westland farmer, he selected Ellisland, a beautiful 
spot, fit alike for the steps of ploughman or poet. On intimating this to the magnates 
of Edinburgh, no one lamented that a genius so bright and original should be driven to 
win his bread with the sweat of his brow : no one, with an indignant eye, ventured to tell 
those to whom the patronage of this magnificent empire was confided, that they were 
misusing the sacred trust, and that posterity would curse them for their coldness or neglect : 
neither did any of the rich nobles, whose tables he had adorned by his wit, offer to enable 
him to toil free of rent, in a land of which he was to be a permanent ornament ; — all were 
silent — all were cold — the Earl of Glencairn alone, aided by Alexander Wood, a gentle- 
man" who merits praise oftener than he is named, did the little that was done or attempted 
to be done for him : nor was that little done on the peer s part without solicitation : — " I 
wish to go into the excise ;" thus he wrote to Glencairn ; " and I am told your lordship's 
interest will easily procure me the grant from the commissioners : and your lordship's 

i 



XXX LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

patronage and goodness, which have already rescued me from obscurity, wretchedness, 
and exile, emboldens me to ask that interest. You have likewise put it in my power to 
save the little tie of home that sheltered an aged mother, two brothers, and three sisters 
from destruction. I am ill qualified to dog the heels of greatness with the impertinence 
of solicitation, and tremble nearly as much at the thought of the cold promise as the cold 
denial." The farm and the excise exhibit the poet's humble scheme of life : the money of 
the one, he thought, would support the toil of the other, and in the fortunate management 
of both he looked for the rough abundance^ if not the elegancies suitable to a poet's 
condition. 

While Scotland was disgraced by sordidly allowing her brightest genius to descend to 
the plough and the excise, the poet hastened his departure from a city which had witnessed 
both his triumph and his shame : he bade farewell in a few well-chosen w T ords to such of 
the classic literati — the Blairs, the Stewarts, the Mackenzies, and the Tytlers — as had 
welcomed the rustic bard and continued to countenance him ; while in softer accents he 
bade adieu to the Clarindas and Chlorises of whose charms he had sung, and, having 
wrung a settlement from Creech, he turned his steps towards Mossgiel and Mauchline. 
He had several reasons, and all serious ones, for taking Ayrshire in his way to the Nith : 
he desired to see his mother, his brothers and sisters, who had partaken of his success, 
and were now raised from pining penury to comparative affluence : he desired to see those 
who had aided him in his early struggles into the upper air— perhaps those, too, who had 
looked coldly on, and smiled at his outward aspirations after fame or distinction ; but 
more than all, he desired to see one whom he once and still dearly loved, who had been a 
sufferer for his sake, and whom he proposed to make mistress of his fireside and the sharer 
of his fortunes. Even while whispering of love to Charlotte Hamilton, on the banks of 
the Devon, or sighing out the affected sentimentalities of platonic or pastoral love in the 
ear of Clarinda, his thoughts wandered to her whom he had left bleaching her 
webs among the daisies on Mauchline braes — she had still his heart, and in spite of her 
own and her father's disclamation, she was his wife. It was one of the delusions of this 
great poet, as well as of those good people, the Armours, that the marriage had been dis- 
solved by the destruction of the marriage-lines, and that Robert Burns and Jean Armour 
were as single as though they had neither vowed nor written themselves man and wife. 
Be that as it may, the time was come when all scruples and obstacles were to be removed 
which stood in the way of their union : their hands were united by Gavin Hamilton, 
according to law, in April, 1788; and even the Reverend Mr. Auld, so mercilessly 
lampooned, smiled forgivingly as the poet satisfied a church wisely scrupulous regarding 
the sacred ceremony of marriage. 

Though Jean Armour was but a country lass of humble degree, she had sense and in- 
telligence, and personal charms sufficient not only to win and fix the affections of the 
poet, but to sanction the praise which he showered on her in song. In a letter to Mrs. 
Dnnlop, he thus describes her : " The most placid good nature and sweetness of disposition, 
a warm heart, gratefully devoted with all its powers to love me ; vigorous health and 
sprightly cheerfulness, set off to the best advantage by a more than commonly handsome 
figure : these I think in a woman may make a good wife, though she should never have 
read a page but the Scriptures, nor have danced in a brighter assembly than a penny-pay 



IJFE OF ROBERT BURNS. XXXI 

wedding.'* To the accomplished Margaret Chalmers, of Edinburgh, he adds, to complete 
the picture, ' w I have got the handsomest figure, the sweetest temper, the soundest consti- 
tution, and kindest heart in the country : a certain late publication of Scots' poems she 
has perused very devoutly, and all the ballads in the land, as she has the finest wood- 
note wild you ever heard." With his young wife, a punch bowl of Scottish marble, 
and an eight-day clock, both presents from Mr. Armour, now reconciled to his eminent 
son-in-law, with a new plough, and a beautiful heifer, given by Mrs. Dunlop, with about 
four hundred pounds in his pocket, a resolution to toil, and a hope of success, Burns 
made his appearance on the banks of the Nith, and set up his staff at Ellisland. This 
farm, now a classic spot, is about six miles up the river from Dumfries ; it extends to up- 
wards of a hundred acres : the soil is kindly ; the holmland portion of it loamy and rich, 
and it has at command fine walks on the river-side, and views of the Friar's Carse, Cowe- 
hill, and Dalswinton. For a while the poet had to hide his head in a smoky hovel : till a 
house to his fancy, and offices for his cattle and his crops were built, his accommodation 
was sufficiently humble; and his mind taking its hue from his situation, infused a bitter- 
ness into the letters in which he first made known to his western friends that he had fixed 
his abode in Nithsdale. " I am here," said he, " at the very elbow of existence : the only 
things to be found in perfection in this country are stupidity and canting : prose they 
only know in graces and prayers, and the value of these they estimate as they do their 
plaiden-webs, by the ell : as for the muses, they have as much an idea of a rhinoceros as 
of a poet." " This is an undiscovered clime," he at another period exclaims, " it is un- 
known to poetry, and prose never looked on it save in drink. I sit by the fire, and listen 
to the hum of the spinning-wheel : I hear, but cannot see it, for it is hidden in the smoke 
which eddies round and round me before it seeks to escape by window and door. I have 
no converse but with the ignorance whicli encloses me : no kenned face but that of my old 
mare, Jenny Geddes — my life is dwindled down to mere existence." 

When the poet's new house was built and plenished, and the atmosphere of his mind 
began to clear, he found the land to be fruitful, and its people intelligent and wise. In 
Riddel, of Friar's Carse, he found a scholar and antiquarian; in Miller, of Dalswinton, a 
man conversant with science as well as with the world ; in M'Murdo, of Drumlanrig, a 
generous and accomplished gentleman ; and in John Syme, of Ryedale, a man much after 
his own heart, and a lover of the wit and socialities of polished life. Of these gentlemen 
Riddel, who was his neighbour, was the favourite : a door was made in the march-fence 
which separated Ellisland from Friar's Carse, that the poet might indulge in the retirement 
of the Carse hermitage, a little lodge in the wood, as romantic as it was beautiful, while a 
pathway was cut through the dwarf oaks and birches which fringed the river bank, to 
enable the poet to saunter and muse without lett or interruption. This attention was 
rewarded by an inscription for the hermitage, written with elegance as well as feeling, 
and which was the first fruits of his fancy in this unpoetic land. In a happier strain he 
remembered Matthew Henderson : this is one of the sweetest as well as happiest of his 
poetic compositions. He heard of his friend's death, and called on nature animate and in- 
animate, to lament the loss of one who held the patent of his honours from God alone, and 
who loved all that was pure and lovely and good. " The Whistle" is another of his Ellis- 
land compositions : the contest which he has recorded with such spirit and humour took 



XXXii LIFE OF ROBKKT BURNS. 

place almost at his door : the heroes were Fergusson, of Craigdarroch, Sir Robei t Laurie, 
of Maxwelltowp, and Riddel, of the Friar s Carse : the poet was present, and drank bottle 
and bottle about with the best, and when all was done he seemed much disposed, as an 
old servant at Friar's Carse remembered, to take up the victor. 

Burns had become fully reconciled to Nithsdale, and was on the most intimate terms 
with the muse when he produced Tam o' Shanter, the crowning glory of all his poems. 
For this marvellous tale we are indebted to something like accident : Francis Grose, the 
antiquary, happened to visit Friar's Carse, and as he loved wine and wit, the total want 
of imagination was no hinderance to his friendly intercourse with the poet : " Alloway's 
auld haunted kirk" was mentioned, and Grose said he would include it in his illustrations 
of the antiquities of Scotland, if the bard of the Doon would write a poem to accompany 
it. Burns consented, and before he left the table the various traditions which belonged to 
the ruin were passing through his mind. One of these was of a farmer, who, on a night 
wild with wind and rain, on passing the old kirk was startled by a light glimmering inside 
the walls : on drawing near he saw a caldron hung over a fire, in which the heads and 
limbs of children were simmering : there were neither witch nor fiend to guard it, so he 
unhooked the caldron, turned out the contents, and carried it home as a trophy. A 
second tradition was of a man of Kyle, who, having been on a market night detained late 
in Ayr, on crossing the old bridge of Doon, on his way home, saw a light streaming through 
the gothic window of Alloway kirk, and on riding near, beheld a batch of the district 
witches dancing merrily round their master, the devil, who kept them u louping and 
flinging" to the sound of a bagpipe. He knew several of the old crones, and smiled at 
their gambols, for they were dancing in their smocks : but one of them, and she happened 
to be young and rosy, had on a smock shorter than those of her companions by two spans 
at least, which so moved the farmer, that he exclaimed " Weel luppan Maggie wi' the 
short sark !" Satan stopped his music, the light was extinguished, and out rushed the 
hags after the farmer, who made at the gallop for the bridge of Doon, knowing that they 
could not cross a stream : he escaped ; but Maggie, who was foremost, seized his horse's 
tail at the middle of the bridge, and pulled it off in her efforts to stay him. 

This poem was the work of a single day : Burns walked out to his favourite musing 
path, which runs towards the old tower of the Isle, along Nithside, and was observed to walk 
hastily and mutter as he went. His wife knew by these signs that he was engaged in 
composition, and watched him from the window ; at last, wearying, and moreover won- 
dering at the unusual length of his meditations, she took her children with her and went 
to meet him ; but as he seemed not to see her, she stept aside among the broom to allow 
him to pass, which he did with a flushed brow and dropping eyes, reciting these lines 
aloud : — 

" Now Tarn ! O, Tam ! had thae been queans, 
A' plump and strapping in their teens, 
Their sarks, instead o' creeshie flannen, 
Been snaw-white seventeen hunder linen ! 
Thir breeks o' mine, my only pair, 
That ance were plush, o 1 gude blue hair, 
I wad hae gien them aff my hurdies 
For ae blink o' the bonnie burdies !" 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. XXXlll 

He embellished this wild tradition from fact as well as from fancy : along the road which 
Tarn came on that eventful night his memory supplied circumstances which prepared him 
for the strange sight at the kirk of Alloway. A poor chapman had perished, some winters 
before, in the snow ; a murdered child had been found by some early hunters ; a tippling 
farmer had fallen from his horse at the expense of his neck, beside a " meikle stane ;" and a 
melancholy old woman had hanged herself at the bush aboon the well, as the poem 
relates : all these matters the poet pressed into the service of the muse, and used 
them with a skill which adorns rather than oppresses the legend. A pert lawyer from 
Dumfries objected to the language as obscure : " Obscure, Sir !" said Burns ; " you know 
not the language of that great master of your own art — the devil. If you had a witch for 
your client you would not be able to manage her defence !" 

He wrote few poems after his marriage, but he composed many songs : the sweet voice 
of Mrs. Burns and the craving of Johnson's Museum will in some measure account for 
the number, but not for their variety, which is truly wonderful. In the history of that 
mournful strain, " Mary in Heaven," we read the story of many of his lyrics, for they 
generally sprang from his personal feelings : no poet has put more of himself into his poetry 
than Burns. " Robert, though ill of a cold," said his wife, " had been busy all day — 
a day of September, 1789, with the shearers in the field, and as he had got most of the 
corn into the stack-yard, was in good spirits; but when the twilight came he grew sad 
about something, and could not rest : he wandered first up the water-side, and then went 
into the stack-yard : I followed, and begged him to come into the house, as he was ill, 
and the air was sharp and cold. He said, ' Aye, aye,' but did not come : he threw him- 
self down on some loose sheaves, and lay looking at the sky, and particularly at a 
large, bright star, which shone like another moon. At last, but that was long after 
I had left him, he came home — the song was already composed." To the memory 
of Mary Campbell he dedicated that touching ode ; and he thus intimates the continu- 
ance of his early affection for " The fair-haired lass of the west," in a letter of that 
time to Mrs. Dunlop. " If there is another life, it must be only for the just, the benevo- 
lent, the amiable, and the humane. What a flattering idea, then, is a world to come ! 
There shall I, with speechless agony of rapture, again recognise my lost, my ever dear 
Mary, whose bosom was fraught with truth, honour, constancy, and love." These 
melancholy words gave way in their turn to others of a nature lively and humorous : 
" Tarn Glen," in which the thoughts flow as freely as the waters of the Nith, on whose 
banks he wrote it ; " Findlay," with its quiet vein of sly simplicity ; " Willie brewed a 
peck o' maut," the first of social, and " She's fair and fause," the first of sarcastic songs, 
with " The deil's awa wi' the Exciseman," are all productions of this period — a period 
which had besides its own fears and its own forebodings. 

For a while Burns seemed to prosper in his farm , he held the plough with his own 
hand, he guided the harrows, he distributed the seed -corn equally among the furrows, and 
he reaped the crop in its season, and saw it safely cohered in from the storms of winter 
with "thack and rape ;" his wife, too, superintended the dairy with a skill which she had 
brought from Kyle, and as the harvest, for a season or two, was abundant, and the dairy 
yielded butter and cheese for the market, it seemed that "the luckless star" which 
ruled his lot had relented, and now shone unbodmg an<* benignly. But much more is re?- 

k 



YXX1V LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

quired than toil of hand to make a successful farmer, nor will the attention bestowed only 
by fits and starts, compensate for carelessness or oversight : frugality, not in one thing 
but in all, is demanded, in small matters as well as in great, while a careful mind and a 
vigilant eye must superintend the labours of servants, and the whole system of in-door 
and out-door economy. Now, during the three years which Burns stayed in Ellisland, 
he neither wrought with that constant diligence which farming demands, nor did he bestow 
upon it the unremitting attention of eye and mind which such a farm required : besides 
his skill in husbandry was but moderate — the rent, though of his own fixing, was too 
high for him and for the times ; the ground, though good, was not so excellent as he might 
have had on the same estate — he employed more servants than the number of acres de, 
manded, and spread for them a richer board than common : when we have said this we 
need not add the expensive tastes induced by poetry, to keep readers from starting, when 
they are told that Burns, at the close of the third year of occupation, resigned his lease to 
the landlord, and bade farewell for ever to the plough. He was not, however, quite 
desolate ; he had for a year or more been appointed on the excise, and had superintended 
a district extending to ten large parishes, with applause ; indeed, it has been assigned as 
the chief reason for failure in his farm, that when the plough or the sickle summoned him 
to the field, he was to be found, either pursuing the defaulters of the revenue, among the 
valleys of Dumfrieshire, or measuring out pastoral verse to the beauties of the land. He 
retired to a house in the Bank-vennel of Dumfries, and commenced a town-life : he com- 
menced it with an empty pocket, for Ellisland had swallowed up all the profits of his 
poems : he had now neither a barn to produce meal nor barley, a barn-yard to yield a fat 
hen, a field to which he could go at Martinmas for a mart, nor a dairy to supply milk 
and cheese and butter to the table — he had, in short, all to buy and little to buy with. 
He regarded it as a compensation that he had no farm-rent to provide, no bankruptcies to 
dread, no horse to keep, for his excise duties were now confined to Dumfries, and that the 
burthen of a barren farm was removed from his mind, and his muse at liberty to renew 
her unsolicited strains. 

But from the day of his departure from " the barren" Ellisland, the downward course 
of Burns may be dated. The cold neglect of his country had driven him back indignantly 
to the plough, and he hoped to gain from the furrowed field that independence which it 
was the duty of Scotland to have provided : but he did not resume the plough with all 
the advantages he possessed when he first forsook it : he had revelled in the luxuries of 
polished life — his tastes had been rendered expensive as well as pure : he had witnessed, 
and he hoped for the pleasures of literary retirement, while the hands which had led 
jewelled dames over scented carpets to supper-tables loaded with silver, took hold of the 
hilts of the plough with more of reluctance than goodwill. Edinburgh, with its lords 
and its ladies, its delights and its hopes, spoiled him for farming. Nor were Iris new 
labours more acceptable to his haughty spirit than those of the plough: the excise 
for a century had been a word of opprobrium or of hatred in the north : the duties which 
it imposed were regarded, not by peasants alone, as a serious encroachment upon the 
ancient rights of the nation, and to mislead a ganger, or resist him, even to blood, was 
considered by few as a fault. That the brightest genius of the nation — one whose tastes 
and Rensibilities were so peculiarly its own — should be, as a reward, set to look after run- 



LIFE OK R0J3KKT B'tfRtfS. XXXV 

rum and smuggled tobacco, and to gauge ale-wife's barrels, was a regret and a marvel to 
many, and a source of bitter merriment to Burns himself. 

The duties of his situation were however performed punctually, if not with pleasure • 
ne was a vigilant officer; he was also a merciful and considerate one: though loving a 
joke, and not at all averse to a dram, he walked among suspicious brewers, captious ale 
wives, and frowning shopkeepers as uprightly as courteously : he smoothed the ruggedest 
natures into acquiescence by his gaiety and humour, and yet never gave cause for a mali- 
cious remark, by allowing his vigilance to slumber. He was brave, too, and in the cap- 
ture of an armed smuggler, in which he led the attack, showed that he neither feared 
water nor fire : he loved, also, to counsel the more forward of the smugglers to abandon 
their dangerous calling ; his sympathy for the helpless poor induced him to give them now 
and then notice of his approach ; he has been known to interpret the severe laws of the 
excise into tenderness and mercy in behalf of the widow and the fatherless. In all this 
he did but his duty to his country and his kind : and his conduct was so regarded by 
a very competent and candid judge. " Let me look at the books of Burns," said Maxwell, 
of Terraughty, at a meeting of the district magistrates, " for they show that an upright 
officer may be a merciful one." With a salary of some seventy pounds a year, the chance 
of a few guineas annually from the future editions of his poems, and the hope of rising at 
some distant day to the more lucrative situation of supervisor, Burns continued to live 
in Dumfries ; first in the Bank-vennel, and next in a small house in a humble street, since 
called by his name. 

In his earlier years the poet seems to have scattered songs as thick as a summer eve 
scatters its dews ; nor did he scatter them less carelessly : he appears, indeed, to have 
thought much less of them than of his poems : the sweet song of Mary Morison, and 
others not at all inferior, lay unregarded among his papers till accident called them out to 
shine and be admired. Many of these brief but happy compositions, sometimes with his 
name, and oftener without, he threw in dozens at a time into Johnson, where they were 
noticed only by the captious Ritson : but now a work of higher pretence claimed a share 
in his skill : in September, 1792, he was requested by George Thomson to render, for his 
national collection, the poetry worthy of the muses of the north, and to take compassion on 
many choice airs, which had waited for a poet like the author of the Cotter's Saturday 
Night, to wed them to immortal verse. To engage in such an undertaking, Burns re- 
quired small persuasion, and while Thomson asked for strains delicate and polished, the 
poet characteristically stipulated that his contributions were to be without remuneration, 
and the language seasoned with a sprinkling of the Scottish dialect. As his heart 
was much in the matter, he began to pour out verse with a readiness and talent 
unknown in the history of song : his engagement with Thomson, and his esteem for 
Johnson, gave birth to a series of songs as brilliant as varied, and as naturally easy as 
they were gracefully original. In looking over those very dissimilar collections it is not 
difficult to discover that the songs which he wrote for the more stately work, while they 
are more polished and elegant than those which he contributed to the less pretending one, 
are at the same time less happy in their humour and less simple in their pathos. " What 
pleases me as simple and naive," says Burns to Thomson, " disgusts you as ludicrous and 
low. For ibis reason k Fye, gie me my coggie, sir?/ ' Fya ? let us & s to the bridal,' with 



XXXVI LIFE OF KOBERT BURNS. 

several others of that cast, are to me highly pleasing, while ' Saw ye my Father delights 
me with its descriptive simple pathos :" we read in these words the reasons of the dif- 
ference between the lyrics of the two collections. 

The land where the poet lived furnished ready materials for song : hills with fine 
woods, vales with clear waters, and dames as lovely as any recorded in verse, were 
to be had in his walks and his visits ; while, for the purposes of mirth or of humour, 
characters, in whose faces originality was legibly written, were as numerous in Nithsdale 
as he had found them in the west. He had been reproached, while in Kyle, with seeing 
charms in very ordinary looks, and hanging the garlands of the muse on unlovely altars; 
he was liable to no such censure in Nithsdale ; he poured out the incense of poetry only 
on the fair and the captivating : his Jeans, his Lucys, his Phillises, and his Jessies were 
la Hes of such mental or personal charms as the Reynolds's and the Lawrences of the time 
would have rejoiced to lay out their choicest colours on. But he did not limit himself to 
the charms of those whom he could step out to the walks and admire : his lyrics give 
evidence of the wandering of his thoughts to the distant or the dead — he loves to re- 
member Charlotte Hamilton and Mary Campbell, and think of the sighs and vows 
on the Devon and the Doon, while his harpstrings were still quivering to the names of 
the Millers and the M'Murdos — to the charms of the lasses with golden or with flaxen 
locks, in the valley where he dwelt. Of Jean M'Murdo and her sister Phillis he loved 
to sing ; and their beauty merited his strains : to one who died in her bloom, Lucy 
Johnston, he addressed a song of great sweetness ; to Jessie Lewars, two or three songs 
of gratitude and praise : nor did he forget other beauties, for the accomplished Mrs. 
Riddel is remembered, and the absence of fair Clarinda, is lamented in strains both impas- 
sioned and pathetic. 

But the main inspirer of the latter songs of Burns was a young woman of humble 
birth : of a form equal to the most exquisite proportions of sculpture, with bloom on 
her cheeks, and merriment in her large bright eyes, enough to drive an amatory 
poet crazy. Her name was Jean Lorimer ; she was not more than seventeen when the 
poet made her acquaintance, and though she had got a sort of brevet-right from an 
officer of the army, to use his southron name of Whelpdale, she loved best to be addressed 
by her maiden designation, while the poet chose to veil her in the numerous lyrics, to 
which she gave life, under the names of " Chloris," "The lass of Craigie-burnwood," and 
" The lassie wi' the lint white locks." Though of a temper not much inclined to conceal any- 
thing, Burns complied so tastefully witli the growing demand of the age for the exterior de- 
cencies of life, that when the scrupling dames of Caledonia sung a new song in her praise, they 
were as unconscious whence its beauties came, as is the lover of art, that the shape and the 
gracefulness of the marble nymph which he admires, are derived from a creature who sells 
the use of her charms indifferently to sculpture or to love. Fine poetry, like other arts called 
fine, springs from " strange places," as the flower in the fable said, when it bloomed on the 
dunghill ; nor is Burns more to be blamed than was Raphael, who painted Madonnas, and 
Magdalens with dishevelled hair and lifted eyes, from a loose lady, whom the pope, " Holy 
at Rome — here Antichrist," charitably prescribed to the artist, while he laboured in the 
cause of the church. Of the poetic use which he made of Jean Lorimer's charms, Burns 
givesthis account to Thomson. "The lady on whom the song of Craigie-burnwood was made 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. XXXV11 

is one of the finest women in Scotland, and in fact is to me in a manner what Sterne's Eliza 
was to him — a mistress, or friend, or what you will, in the guileless simplicity of Platonic 
love. I assure you that to my lovely friend you are indebted for many of my best songs. Do 
you think that the sober gin-horse routine of existence could inspire a man with life and 
love and joy — could fire him with enthusiasm, or melt him with pathos, equal to the ge- 
nius of your book ? No ! no ! Whenever I want to be more than ordinary in song — to be 
in some degree equal to your diviner airs — do you imagine I fast and pray for the celes- 
tial emanation ? Quite the contrary. I have a glorious recipe ; the very one that for his 
own use was invented by the divinity of healing and poesy, when erst he piped to the 
flocks of Admetus. I put myself in a regimen of admiring a fine woman ; and in pro- 
portion to the adorability of her charms, in proportion are you delighted with my verses. 
The lightning of her eye is the godhead of Parnassus, and the witchery of her smile, the 
divinity of Helicon." 

Most of the songs which he composed under the influences to which I have alluded are 
of the first order : " Bonnie Lesley," " Highland Mary," " Auld Rob Morris," " Duncan 
Gray," " Wandering Willie," " Meg o' the Mill," " The poor and honest sodger," "Bonnie 
Jean," " Phillis the fair," " John Anderson my Jo," " Had I a care on some wild distant 
shore," " Whistle and I'll come to you, my lad," " Bruce's Address to his men at Ban- 
nockburn," " Auld Lang Syne," " Thine am I, my faithful fair," " Wilt thou be my 
dearie," " Chloris mark how green the groves," " Contented wi' little, and oantie wi* 
mair," " Their groves of sweet myrtle," " Last May a braw wooer came down the lang 
glen," " Mally's meek, Mally's sweet," " Hey for a lass wi' a tocher," " Here's a 
health to ane I loe dear," and the " Fairest maid on Devon banks." Many of the latter 
lyrics of Burns were more or less altered, to put them into better harmony with the airs, 
and I am not the only one who has wondered that a bard so impetuous and intractable 
in most matters, should have become so soft and pliable, as to make changes which too 
often sacrificed the poetry for the sake of a fuller and more swelling sound. It is true 
that the emphatic notes of the music must find their echo in the emphatic words of 
the verse, and that words soft and liquid are fitter for ladies' lips, than words hissing and 
rough ; but it is also true that in changing a harsher word for one more harmonious the 
sense often suffers, and that happiness of expression, and that dance cf words which lyric 
verse requires, lose much of their life and vigour. The poet's fa^ourito walk in composing 
his songs was on a beautiful green sward on the northern side of the Nith, opposite Lin- 
cluden; and his favourite posture for composition at home was balancing himself on 
the hind legs of his arm-chair. 

While indulging in these lyrical flights, politics penetrated into Nithsdale, and dis- 
turbed the tranquillity of that secluded region. First, there came a contest for the 
representation of the Dumfries district of boroughs, between Patrick Miller, younger, 
of Dalswinton, and Sir James Johnstone, of Westerhall, and some two years afterwards, 
a struggle for the representation of the county of Kirkudbright, between the interest of 
the -Stewarts, of Galloway, and Patrick Heron, of Kerroughtree. In the first of these 
the poet mingled discretion with his mirth, and raised a hearty laugh, in which both 
parties joined ; for this sobriety of temper, good reasons may be assigned : Miller, the 
elder, of Dalswinton, had desired to oblige him in the affair of Ellisland, and his fini< 

I 



XXXV11L LIFE OF ROJBKKT BURNS, 

and considerate friend) M'Murdo, of Drumianrig, was chamberlain to his Grace of 
Queensbury, on whose interest Miller stood. On the other hand, his old Jaeobitica? 
affections made him the secret well-wisher to "Westerhall, for up to this time, at least till 
acid disappointment and the democratic doctrine of the natural equality of man influenced 
him, Burns,* or as a western rhymer of his day and district worded the reproach — Rob was 
a Tory. His situation, it will therefore be observed, disposed him to moderation, and ac- 
counts for the milkiness of his Epistle to Fintry, in which he marshals the chiefs of the 
contending factions, and foretells the fierceness of the strife, without pretending to 
foresee the event. Neither is he more explicit, though infinitely more humorous, in 
his ballad of " The Five Carlins," in which he impersonates the five boroughs — 
Dumfries, Kirkcudbright, Lochmaben, Sanquhar, and Annan, and draws their charac- 
ters as shrewd and calculating dames, met in much wrath and drink to choose z 
representative. 

But the two or three years which elapsed between the election for the boroughs, 
and that for the county adjoining, wrought a serious change in the temper as well 
as the opinions of the poet. His Jacobitism, as has been said, was of a poetic kind, 
and put on but in obedience to old feelings, and made no part of the man : he was in 
his heart as democratic as the kirk of Scotland, which educated him — he acknow- 
ledged no other superiority but the mental : " he was disposed, too," said Professor 
Walker, " from constitutional temper, from education and the accidents of life, to a jea- 
lousy of power, and a keen hostility against every system which enabled birth and 
opulence to anticipate those rewards which he conceived to belong to genius and 
virtue.'* When we add to this, a resentment of the injurious treatment of the dis- 
pensers of public patronage, who had neglected his claims, and showered pensions and 
places on men unworthy of being named with him, we have assigned causes for the 
change of side and the tone of asperity and bitterness, infused into " The Heron 
Ballads." Formerly honey was mixed with his gall ; a little praise sweetened his cen- 
sure : in these election lampoons he is fierce, and even venomous : — no man has a head 
but what is empty, nor a heart that is not black : men descended without reproach 
from lines of heroes are stigmatized as cowards, and the honest and conscientious are 
reproached as miserly, mean, and dishonourable. Such is the spirit of party. " I 
have privately," thus writes the poet to Heron, " printed a good many copies of 
the ballads, and have sent them among friends about the country. You have 
already, as your auxiliary, the sober detestation of mankind, on the heads of your 
opponents ; and I swear by the lyre of Thalia, to muster on your side all the votaries of 
honest laughter and fair, candid ridicule." The ridicule was uncandid, and the 
laughter dishonest. The poet was unfortunate in his political attachments: Miller 
gained the boroughs which Burns wished he might lose, and Heron lost the county which 
he foretold he would gain. It must also be recorded against the good taste of the poet, 
that he loved to recite "The Heron Ballads," and reckon them among his happiest 
compositions. 

From attacking others, the poet was — in the interval between penning these election 
lampoons- — called on to defend himself: for this he seems to have been quite unprepared, 
though in those yeasty times he might have expected it. t: I have been surprised, 



\ 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. XXXI X 

rounded, and distracted," he thus writes to Graham, of Fintry, " by Mr. Mitchell, the col- 
lector, telling me that he has received an order from your board to inquire into my 
political conduct, and blaming me as a person disaffected to Government. Sir, you are 
a husband and a father : you know what you would feel, to see the much-loved wife of 
your bosom, and your helpless, prattling little ones, turned adrift into the world, degraded 
and disgraced, from a situation in which they had been respectable and respected. I 
would not tell a deliberate falsehood, no, not though even worse horrors, if worse can be, 
than those I have mentioned, hung over my head, and I say that the allegation, what- 
ever villain has made it, is a lie ! To the British constitution, on Revolution principles, 
next after my God, I am devotedly attached. To your patronage as a man of some 
genius, you have allowed me a claim ; and your esteem as an honest man I know is 
my due. To these, Sir, permit me to appeal : by these I adjure you to save me from 
that misery which threatens to overwhelm me, and which with my latest breath I will 
say I have not deserved." In this letter another, intended for the eye of the Com- 
missioners of the Board of Excise, was enclosed, in which he disclaimed entertaining the 
idea of a British republic — a wild dream of the day — but stood by the principles of the 
constitution of 1688, with the wish to see such corruptions as had crept in, amended. This 
last remark, it appears, by a letter from the poet to Captain Erskine, afterwards Earl of 
Mar, gave great offence, for Corbet, one of the superiors, was desired to inform him, " that 
his business was to act, and not to think ; and that whatever might be men or measures, 
it was his duty to be silent and obedient." The intercession of Fintry, and the explana- 
tions of Burns, were so far effectual, that his political offence was forgiven, " only I 
understand," said he, " that all hopes of my getting officially forward are blasted." The 
records of the Excise Office exhibit no trace of this memorable matter, and two noble- 
men, who were then in the government, have assured me that this harsh proceeding 
received no countenance at head-quarters, and must have originated with some ungene- 
rcus or malicious person, on whom the poet had spilt a little of the nitric acid of his 
wrath. 

That Burns was numbered among the republicans of Dumfries I well remember : but 
then those who held different sentiments from the men in power, were all, in that loyal 
town, stigmatized as democrats : that he either desired to see the constitution changed, or 
his country invaded by the liberal French, who proposed to set us free with the 
bayonet, and then admit us to the " fraternal embrace," no one ever believed. It is true 
that he spoke of premiers and peers with contempt; that he hesitated to take off his hat in 
the theatre, to the air of " God save the king;" that he refused to drink the health of Pitt, 
saying he preferred that of Washington — a far greater man; that he wrote bitter words 
against that combination of princes, who desired to put down freedom in France ; that he 
said the titled spurred and the wealthy switched England and Scotland like two hack-horses; 
and that all the high-places of the land, instead of being filled by genius and talent, 
were occupied, as were the high-places of Israel, with idols of wood or of stone. But all 
this and more had been done and said before by thousands in this land, whose love of their 
country was never questioned. That it was bad taste to refuse to remove his hat when 
other heads were bared, and little better to refuse to pledge in company the name of 
Pitt, because he preferred Washington, cannot admit of a doubt ; but that he deserved to 



Xl L11E OF ItUHEKT BURNS. 

be written down traitor, for mere matters of whim or caprice, or to be turned out 
of the unen vied situation of "gauging auld wives' barrels," because he thought there 
were some stains on the white robe of the constitution, seems a sort of tyranny new in the 
history of oppression. His love of country is recorded in too many undying lines to 
admit of a doubt now : nor is it that chivalrous love alone which men call romantic ; 
it is a love which may be laid up in every mans heart. -and practised in eA 7 ery man's life ; 
the words are homely, but the words of Burns are always expressive :— 

" The kettle of the kirk and state 

Perhaps a clout may fail in't, 
But deil a foreign tinkler loon 

Shall ever ca 1 a nail in't. 
Be Britons still to - Britons true, 

Amang ourselves united ; 
For never but by British hands 

Shall British wrongs be righted. " 

But while verses, deserving as these do to become the national motto, and sentiments 
loyal and generous, were overlooked and forgotten, all his rash words about freedom, 
and his sarcastic sallies about thrones and kings, were treasured up to his injury, by 
the mean and the malicious. His steps were watched and his words weighed ; when 
he talked with a friend in the street, he was supposed to utter sedition ; and when ladies 
retired from the table, and the wine circulated with closed doors, he was suspected of trea- 
son rather than of toasting, which he often did with much humour, the charms of woman ; 
even when he gave as a sentiment, " May our success be equal to the justice of our cause," 
he was liable to be challenged by some gunpowder captain, who thought that we de- 
served success in war, whether right or wrong. It is true that he hated with a most 
cordial hatred all who presumed on their own consequence, whether arising from wealth, 
titles, or commissions in the army ; officers he usually called " the epauletted puppies," 
and lords lie generally spoke of as " feather-headed fools," who could but stmt and 
stare and be insolent. All this was not to be endured meekly : scorn was answered 
with scorn ; and having no answer in kind to retort his satiric flings, his unfriends 
reported that it was unsafe for young men to associate with one whose principles were 
democratic, and scarcely either modest or safe for young women to listen to a poet 
whose notions of female virtue were so loose and his songs so free. These sentiments 
prevailed so far that a gentleman on a visit from London, told me he was dissuaded 
from inviting Burns to a dinner, given by way of welcome back to his native place, 
because he was the associate of democrats and loose people ; and when a modest dame 
of Dumfries expressed, through a friend, a wish to have but the honour of speaking to 
one of whose genius she was an admirer, the poet declined the interview, with a half- 
serious smile, saying, " Alas ! she is handsome, and you know the character publicly 
assigned to me." She escaped the danger of being numbered, it is likely, with the Annas 
and the Chlorises of his freer strains. 

The neglect of his country, the tyranny of the Excise, and the downfall of his 
hopes acd fortunes, were now to bring forth their fruits — the poet's health began to 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. x }} 

decline. His drooping looks, his neglect of his person, his solitary saunterings, his 
escape from the stings of reflection into socialities, and his distempered joy in the company 
of beaii'ty, all spoke, as plainly as with a tongue, of a sinking heart and a declining body. 
Yet though he was sensible of sinking health, hope did not at once desert him : ho 
continued to pour out such tender strains, and to show such flashes of wit and humour, 
at the call of Thomson, as are recorded of no other lyrist : neither did he, when in 
company after his own mind, hang the head, and speak mournfully, but talked and 
smiled and still charmed all listeners by his witty vivacities. 

On the 26th of June 1796, he writes thus of his fortunes and condition to his friend Clarke, 
t4 Still, still the victim of affliction ; were you to see the emaciated figure who now holds the 
pen to you, you would not know your old friend. "Whether I shall ever get about again is 
only known to Him, the Great Unknown, whose creature I am. Alas, Clarke, I begin 
to fear the worst ! As to my individual self I am tranquil, and would despise myself if 
I were not : but Burns's poor widow and half-a-dozen of his dear little ones, helpless 
orphans ! Here I am as weak as a woman's tear. Enough of this ! 'tis half my disease. 
I duly received your last, enclosing the note ; it came extremely in time, and I am 
much obliged to your punctuality. Again I must request you to do me the same 
kindness. Be so very good as by return of post to enclose me another note : I trust 
you can do so without inconvenience, and it will seriously oblige me. If I must go, I 
leave a few friends behind me, whom I shall regret while consciousness remains. I know 
I shall live in their remembrance. 0, dear, dear Clarke ! that I shall ever see you again 
is I am afraid highly improbable." This remarkable letter proves both the declining 
health, and the poverty of the poet : his digestion was so bad that he could taste neither 
flesh nor fish : porridge and milk he could alone swallow, and that but in small quan- 
tities. When it is recollected that he had no more than thirty shillings a week to keep 
house, and live like a gentleman, no one need wonder that his wife had to be obliged 
to a generous neighbour for some of the chief necessaries for her coming confinement, 
and that the poet had to beg, in extreme need, two guinea notes from a distant friend. 

His sinking state was not unobserved by his friends, and Syme and M'Murdo united 
with Dr. Maxwell in persuading him, at the beginning of the summer, to seek 
health at the Brow-well, a few miles east from Dumfries, where there were pleasant 
walks on the Solway-side, and salubrious breezes from the sea, which it was expected 
would bring the health to the poet they had brought to many. For a while, his 
looks brightened up, and health seemed inclined to return : his friend, the witty and 
accomplished Mrs. Riddel, who was herself ailing, paid him a visit. " I was struck," 
she said, " with his appearance on entering the room : the stamp of death was impressed 
on his features. His first words were, ' Well, Madam, have you any commands for the 
other world V I replied that it seemed a doubtful case which of us should be there 
soonest ; he looked in my face with an air of great kindness, and expressed his concern 
at seeing me So ill, with his usual sensibility. At table he ate little or nothing : we had 
a long conversation about his present state, and the approaching termination of all his 
earthly prospects. He showed great concern about his literary fame, and particularly 
the publication of his posthumous works ; he said he was well aware thai his death 
would occasion some roise, and that every scrap of his writing would be revived against 

m 



kill LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

him, to the injury of his future reputation ; that letters and vers&s, written with un- 
guarded freedom, would be handed about by vanity or malevolence, when no dread of his 
resentment would restrain them, or prevent malice or envy from pouring forth their 
venom on his name. I had seldom seen his mind greater, or more collected. There was 
frequently a considerable degree of vivacity in his sallies ; but the concern and dejection 
I could not disguise, damped the spirit of pleasantry he seemed willing to indulge." This 
was on the evening of the 5th of July ; another lady who called to see him, found him 
seated at a window, gazing on the sun, then setting brightly on the summits of the green 
hills of Nithsdale. " Look how lovely the sun is," said the poet, " but he will soon have 
done with shining for me." 

Fie now longed for home : his wife, whom he ever tenderly loved, was about to be confined 
in child-bed : his papers were in sad confusion, and required arrangement; and he felt 
that desire to die, at least among familiar things and friendly faces, so common to our 
nature. He had not long before, though much reduced in pocket, refused with scorn an 
offer of fifty pounds, which a speculating bookseller made, for leave to publish his looser 
compositions ; he had refused an offer of the like sum yearly, from Perry of the Morning 
Chronicle, for poetic contributions to his paper, lest it might embroil him with the ruling 
powers, and he had resented the remittance of five pounds from Thomson, on account of 
his lyric contributions, and desired him to do so no more, unless he wished to quarrel 
with him ; but his necessities now, and they had at no time been so great, induced him 
to solicit five pounds from Thomson, and ten pounds from his cousin, James Burness, of 
Montrose, and to beg his friend Alexander Cunningham to intercede with the Commission- 
ers of Excise, to depart from their usual practice, and grant him his full salary; for without 
that, he added, " if I die not of disease, I must perish with hunger." Thomson sent the 
five pounds, James Burness sent the ten, but the Commissioners of Excise refused to be 
either merciful or generous. Stobie, a young expectant in the customs, was both ; — he per- 
formed the duties of the dying poet, and refused to touch the salary. The mind of Burns 
was haunted with the fears of want and the terrors of a jail ; nor were those fears without 
foundation ; one Williamson, to whom he was indebted for the cloth to make his volunteer 
regimentals, threatened the one ; and a feeling that he was without money for either his 
own illness or the confinement of his wife threatened the other. 

Burns returned from the Brow- well, on the 18th of July: as he walked from the 
little carriage which brought him up the Mill hole-brae to his own door, he trembled 
much, and stooped with weakness and pain, and kept his feet with difficulty : his looks 
were woe- worn and ghastly, and no one who saw him, and there were several, expected 
to see him again in life. It was soon circulated through Dumfries, that Burns had 
returned worse from the Brow-well ; that Maxwell thought ill of him, and that, in truth, 
he was dying. The anxiety of all classes was great, differences of opinion were forgotten, 
<n sympathy for his early fate : wherever two or three were met together their talk was 
Df Burns, of his rare wit, matchless humour, the vivacity of his conversation, and the 
iindness of his heart. To the poet himself, death, which he now knew was at hand, 
brought with it no fear ; his good-humour, which small matters alone ruffled, did 
not forsake him, and his wit was ever ready. He was poor — he gave his pistols, 
which he had used against the smugglers on the Solway, to his physician, adding with a 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. xlHt 

Binile, that he had tried them and found them an honour to their maker, which was more 
than he could say of the bulk of mankind ! He was proud — he remembered the indiffer- 
ent practice of the corps to which he belonged, and turning to Gibson, one of his fellow - 
soldiers, who stood at his bed-side with wet eyes, " John," said he, and a gleam of 
humour passed over his face, " pray don't let the awkward-squad fire over me." It was 
almost the last act of his life to copy into his Common-place Book, the letters which 
contained the charge against him of the Commissioners of Excise, and his own eloquent 
refutation, leaving judgment to be pronounced by the candour of posterity. 

It has been injuriously said of Burns, by Coleridge, that the man sunk, but the poet 
was bright to the last : he did not sink in the sense that these words imply : the man 
was manly to the latest draught of breath. That he was a poet to the last, can be 
proved by facts, as well as by the word of the author of Christabel. As he lay silently 
growing weaker and weaker, he observed Jessie Lewars, a modest and beautiful young 
creature, and sister to one of his brethren of the Excise, watching over him with moist 
eyes, and tending him with the care of a daughter, he rewarded her with one of those 
songs which are an insurance against forgetfulness. The lyrics of the north have 
nothing finer than this exquisite stanza : — 

" Altho' thou maun never be mine, 
AMio' even hope is denied, 
'Tis sweeter for thee despairing, 
Than aught in the world beside." 

His thoughts as he lay wandered to Charlotte Hamilton, and he dedicated some 
beautiful stanzas to her beauty and her coldness, beginning, " Fairest maid on Devon 
banks." 

It was a sad sight to see the poet gradually sinking; his wife in hourly expectation of 
her sixth confinement, and his four helpless children — a daughter, a sweet child, had died 
the year before — with no one of their lineage to soothe them with kind words or minister 
to their wants. Jessie Lewars, with equal prudence and attention, watched over them 
all : she could not help seeing that the thoughts of the desolation which his death would 
bring pressed sorely on him, for he loved his children, and hoped much from his boys. 
He wrote to his father-in-law, James Armour, at Mauchline, that he was dying, his wife 
nigh her confinement, and begged that his mother-in-law would hasten to them and speak 
comfort. He wrote to Mrs. Dunlop, saying, " I have written to you so often without 
receiving any answer, that I would not trouble you again, but for the circumstances in 
which I am. An illness which has long hung about me in all probability will speedily 
send me beyond that bourne whence no traveller returns. Your friendship, with which 
for many years you honoured me, was a friendship dearest to my soul : your con- 
versation and your correspondence were at once highly entertaining and instructive — with 
what pleasure did I use to break up the seal ! The remembrance yet adds one pulse 
more to my poor palpitating heart. Farewell !" A tremor pervaded his frame ; his 
tongue grew parched* and he was at times delirious : on the fourth day after his return, 
when his attendant, James Maclure, held his medicine to his lips, he swallowed it eagerly, 
rose almost wholly up, spread out his hands, sprang forward nigh the whole length of the 






xllV LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

bed, fell on his face, and expired. He died on the 21st of July, when nearly thirty-seven 
years and seven months old. 

The burial of Burns, on the 25th of July, was an impressive and mournful scene : half 
the people of Nithsdale and the neighbouring parts of Galloway had crowded into Dum- 
fries, to see their poet " mingled with the earth," and not a few had been permitted to 
look at his body, laid out for interment. It was a calm and beautiful day, and as the 
body was borne along the street towards the old kirk-yard, by his brethren of the volun- 
teers, not a sound was heard but the measured step and the Svidemn music : there w T as no 
impatient crushing, no fierce elbowing — the crowd which filled the street seemed conscious 
what they were now losing for ever. Even while this pageant was passing, the widow 
of the poet was taken in labour ; but the infant born in that unhappy hour soon shared 
his father's grave. On reaching the northern nook of the kirk -yard, where the grave was 
made, the mourners halted ; the coffin was divested of the mort-cloth, and silently lowered 
to its resting-place, and as the first shovel-full of earth fell on the lid, the volunteers, too 
agitated to be steady, justified the fears of the poet, by three ragged vollies. He who 
now writes this very brief and imperfect account, was present : he thought then, as he 
thinks now, that all the military array of foot and horse did not harmonize with either 
the genius or the fortunes of the poet, and that the tears which he saw on many cheeks 
around, as the earth was replaced, were worth all the splendour of a show which mocked 
with unintended mockery the burial of the poor and neglected Burns. The body of the 
poet was, on the 5th of June, 1815, removed to a more commodious spot in the same 
burial-ground — his dark, waving locks looked then fresh and glossy — to afford room for a 
marble monument, which embodies, with neither skill nor grace, that well-known passage 
in the dedication to the gentlemen of the Caledonian Hunt : — " The poetic genius of my 
country found me, as the prophetic bard, Elijah, did Elisha, at the plough, and threw her 
inspiring mantle over me." The dust of the bard was again disturbed, when the body of 
Mrs. Burns was laid, in April, 1834, beside the remains of her husband : his skull was 
dug up by the district craniologists, to satisfy their minds by measurement that he was 
equal to the composition of " Tarn o* Shanter," or " Mary in Heaven." This done, they 
placed the skull in a leaden box, " carefully lined with the softest materials," and re- 
turned it, we hope for ever, to the hallow T ed ground. 

Thus lived and died Robert Burns, the chief of Scottish poets : in his person he was 
tall and sinewy, and of such strength and activity, that Scott alone, of all the poets I 
have seen, seemed his equal : his forehead was broad, his hair black, with an inclination 
to curl, his visage uncommonly swarthy, his eyes large, dark, and lustrous, and his voice 
deep and manly. His sensibility was strong, his passions full to overflowing, and he 
loved, nay, adored, whatever was gentle and beautiful. He had, when a lad at the 
plough, an eloquent word and an inspired song for every fair face that smiled on him, 
and a sharp sarcasm or a fierce lampoon for every rustic who thwarted or contradicted 
him. As his first inspiration came from love, he continued through life to love on, and 
was as ready with the lasting incense of the muse for the ladies of Nithsdale as for the 
lasses of Kyle : his earliest song was in praise of a young girl avIio reaped by his side, 
when he was seventeen — his latest in honour of a lady by whose side he had wandered 
and dreamed on the banks of the Devon. He was of a nature proud and suspicious, and 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. XiV 

towards the close of his life seemed disposed to regard all above him in rank as men who 
unworthily possessed the patrimony of genius ; he desired to see the order of nature 
restored, and worth and talent in precedence of the base or the dull. He had no medium 
in his hatred or his love ; he never spared the stupid, as if they were not to be endured 
because he was bright ; and on the heads of the innocent possessors of titles or wealth he 
was ever ready to shower his lampoons. He loved to start doubts in religion which ho 
knew inspiration only could solve, and he spoke of Calvinism with a latitude of language 
that grieved pious listeners. He was warm-hearted and generous to a degree, above all 
men, and scorned all that was selfish and mean with a scorn quite romantic. He was a 
steadfast friend and a good neighbour : while he lived at Ellisland few passed his door 
without being entertained at his table ; and even when in poverty, on the Millhole-brae, 
the poor seldom left his door but with blessings on their lips. 

Of his modes of study he has himself informed us, as well as of the seasons and places in 
which he loved to muse. He composed while he strolled along the secluded banks of the 
Doon, the Ayr, or the Nith ; as the images crowded on his fancy his pace became 
quickened, and in his highest moods he was excited even to tears. He loved the winter 
for its leafless trees, its swelling floods, and its winds which swept along the gloomy 
sky, with frost and snow on their wings ; but he loved the autumn more — he has neglected 
to say why — the muse was then more liberal of her favours, and he composed with a 
happy alacrity unfelt in all other seasons. He filled his mind and heart with the mate- 
rials of song — and retired from gazing on woman's beauty, and from the excitement of 
her charms, to record his impressions in verse, as a painter delineates on his canvas the 
looks of those who sit to his pencil. His chief place of study at Ellisland is still remem- 
bered : it extends along the river-bank towards the Isle : there the neighbouring gentry 
love to walk and peasants to gather, and hold it sacred, as the place where he composed 
Tain o' Shanter. His favourite place of study, when residing in Dumfries, was the ruins 
of Lincluden College, made classic by that sublime ode, " The Vision," and that level and 
clovery sward contiguous to the College, on the northern side of the Nith : the latter 
place was his favourite resort ; it is known now by the name of Burns' s musing ground, 
and there he conceived many of his latter lyrics. In case of interruption he completed 
the verses at the fireside, where he swung to and fro in his arm-chair till the task was 
done : he then submitted the song to the ordeal of his wife's voice, which was both 
sweet and clear, and while she sung he listened attentively, and altered or amended 
till the whole was in harmony, music and words. 

The genius of Burns is of a high order : in brightness of expression and unsolicited 
ease and natural vehemence of language, he stands in the first rank of poets : in choice of 
subjects, in happiness of conception, and loftiness of imagination, he recedes into the 
second. He owes little of his fame to his subjects, for, saving the beauty of a few ladies, 
they were all of an ordinary kind : he sought neither in romance nor in history for themes 
to the muse ; he took up topics from life around which were familiar to all, and endowed 
them .with character, with passion, with tenderness, with humour — elevating all that he 
touched into the regions of poetry and morals. He went to no far lands for the purpose 
of surprising us with wonders, neither did he go to crowns or coronets to attract the stare 
of the peasantry around him, by things which to them were as a book shut and sealed. 



Xlvi LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

" The Daisy" grew on the lands which he ploughed ; " The Mouse" built her frail nest on 
his own stubble-field ; " The Haggis" reeked on his own table ; " The Scotch Drink" of 
which he sang was the produce of a neighbouring still ; " The Twa Dogs," which con- 
versed so wisely and wittily, were, one of them at least, his own collies; " The Vision "is 
but a picture, and a brilliant one, of his own hopes and fears ; " Tarn Samson" was a friend 
whom he loved ; " Doctor Hornbook" a neighbouring pedant ; " Matthew Henderson" 
a social captain on half-pay ; " The Scotch Bard" who had gone to the West Indies 
was Burns himself ; the heroine of " The Lament" was Jean Armour ; and " Tarn o' 
Shanter" a facetious farmer of Kyle, who rode late and loved pleasant company, nay, even 
" The Deil" himself, whom he had the hardihood to address, was a being whose eldrich croon 
had alarmed the devout matrons of Kyle, and had wandered, not unseen by the bard himself, 
among the lonely glens of the Doon. Burns was one of the first to teach the world that 
high moral poetry resided in the humblest subjects : whatever he touched became elevated; 
his spirit possessed and inspired the commonest topics, and endowed them with life and 
beauty. 

His songs have all the beauties and but few of them the faults of his poems : they flow 
to the music as readily as if both air and words came into the world together. The 
sentiments are from nature, they are rarely strained or forced, and the words dance in 
their places and echo the music in its pastoral sweetness, social glee, or in the tender and 
the moving. He seems always to write with woman's eye upon him : he is gentle, per- 
suasive and impassioned : he appears to watch her looks, and pours out his praise or his 
complaint according to the changeful moods of her mind. He looks on her, too, with a 
sculptor's as well as a poet's eye : to him who w T orks in marble, the diamonds, eme- 
ralds, pearls, and elaborate ornaments of gold, but load and injure the harmony of 
proportion, the grace of form, and divinity of sentiment of his nymph or his goddess — so 
with Burns the fashion of a lady's bodice, the lustre of her satins, or the sparkle of her 
diamonds, or other finery with which wealth or taste has loaded her, are neglected as idle 
frippery; while her beauty, her form, or her mind, matters which are of nature, and not of 
fashion, are remembered and praised. He is none of the millinery bards, who deal in 
scented silks, spider-net laces, rare gems, set in rarer workmanship, and who shower dia- 
monds and pearls by the bushel on a lady's locks : he makes bright eyes, flushing cheeks, the 
magic of the tongue, and the " pulses' maddening play" perform all. His songs are, in 
general, pastoral pictures : he seldom finishes a portrait of female beauty without enclosing 
it in a natural frame-work of waving woods, running streams, the melody of birds, and 
the lights of heaven. Those who desire to feel Burns in all his force, must seek some 
summer glen, when a country girl searches among his many songs for one which sym- 
pathizes with her own heart, and gives it full utterance, till wood and vale is filled with 
the melody. It is remarkable that the most naturally elegant and truly impassioned 
songs in our literature were written by a ploughman in honour of the rustic lasses 
around him. 

His poetry is all life and energy, and bears the impress of a warm heart and a clear 
Understanding : it abounds with passions and opinions — vivid pictures of rural happiness 
and the raptures of successful love, all fresh from nature and observation, and not as they 
are seen through the spectacles of books The wit of the clouted shoe is there without its 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. xMi 

coarseness : there is a prodigality of humour without licentiousness, a pathos ever natural 
and manly, a social joy akin sometimes to sadness, a melancholy not unallied to mirth, 
and a sublime morality which seeks to elevate and soothe. To a love of man he added 
an affection for the flowers of the valley, the fowls of the air, and the beasts of the field : 
he perceived the tie of social sympathy which united animated with unanimated nature, 
and in many of his finest poems most beautifully he has enforced it. His thoughts are 
original and his style new and unborrowed : all that he has written is distinguished by a 
happy carelessness, a bounding elasticity of spirit, and a singular felicity of expression, 
simple yet inimitable ; he is familiar, yet dignified, careless, yet correct, and concise, yet 
clear and full. All this and much more is embodied in the language of humble life — a 
dialect reckoned barbarous by scholars, but which, coming from the lips of inspiration, 
becomes classic and elevated. 

The prose of this great poet has much of the original merit of his verse, but it is seldom 
80 natural and so sustained : it abounds with fine outflashings and with a genial warmth 
and vigour, but it is defaced by false ornament and by a constant anxiety to say fine and 
forcible things. He seems not to know that simplicity was as rare and as needful a 
beauty in prose as in verse ; he covets the paus-es of Sterne and the point and antithesis 
of Junius, like one who believes that to write prose well he must be ever lively, ever 
pointed, and ever smart. Yet the account which he wrote of himself to Dr. Moore is one 
of the most spirited and natural narratives in the language, and composed in a style 
remote from the strained and groped-for witticisms and put-on sensibilities of many of his 
letters : — " Simple," as John Wilson says, " we may well call it ; rich in fancy, over- 
flowing in feeling, and dashed off in every other paragraph with the easy boldness 
of a great master." 






P R E F i a. 



[Th«3 first edition, printed at Kilmarnock, July, 1786, by John Wilson, bore on the title-page these simtnc 
words : — "Poems, chiefly in the Scottish Dialect, by Robert Burns;" the following motto, marked ' :; Auony 
mens/' but evidently the poet's own composition, was more ambitious:— 
" The simple Bard, unbroke by rules of art, 
He pours the wild effusions of the heart: 
And if inspired, 'tis nature's pow'rs inspire— 
Hers all the melting thrill, and hers the kindling fire."] 



The following trifles are not the production of the Poet, who, with all the advantages of 
learned art, and perhaps amid the elegancies and idlenesses of upper life, looks down 
for a rural theme with an eye to Theocritus or Virgil. To the author of this, these, and 
other celebrated names their countrymen, are, at least in their original language, a 
fountain shut up, and a book sealed. Unacquainted with the necessary requisites for com- 
mencing poet by rule, he sings the sentiments and manners he felt and saw in himself and his 
rustic compeers around him in his and their native language. Though a rhymer from his 
earliest years, at least from the earliest impulse of the softer passions, it was not till very 
lately that the applause, perhaps the partiality, of friendship awakened his vanity so far as 
to make him think any thing of his worth showing : and none of the following works were 
composed with a view to the press. To amuse himself with the little creations of his own 
fancy, amid the toil and fatigue of a laborious life ; to transcribe the various feelings — the 
loves, the griefs, the hopes, the fears — in his own breast ; to find some kind of counterpoise 
to the struggles of a world, always an alien scene, a task uncouth to the poetical mind — 
these were his motives for courting the Muses, and in these he found poetry to be its own 
reward. 

Now that he appears in the public character of an author, he does it with fear and trem- 
bling. So dear is fame to the rhyming tribe, that even he, an obscure, nameless Bard, 
shrinks aghast at the thought of being branded as — an impertinent blockhead, obtruding his 
nonsense on the world ; and, because he can make a shift to jingle a few doggerel Scotch 
rhymes together, looking upon himself as a poet of no small consequence, forsooth ! 

It is an observation of that celebrated poet, Shenstone, whose divine elegies do honour to 
our language, our nation, and our species, that " Humility has depressed many a genius to 

o 



I PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION 

a hermit, but never raised one to fame !" If any critic catches at the word genius, the authoi 
tells nim, once for all, that he certainly looks upon himself as possessed of some poetic abi- 
lities, otherwise his publishing in the manner he has done would be a manoeuvre below the 
worst character, which, he hopes, his worst enemy will ever give him. But to the genius of a 
llamsay, or the glorious dawnings of the poor, unfortunate Fergusson, he, with equal unaf- 
fected sincerity, declares, that even in his highest pulse of vanity, he has not the most distant 
pretensions. These two justly-admired Scotch poets he has often had in his eye in the follow- 
ing pieces, but rather with a view to kindle at their flame than for servile imitation. 

To his Subscribers, the A*ithor returns his most sincere thanks. Not the mercenary bow 
over a counter, but the heart-throbbing gratitude of the Bard, conscious how much he owes 
to benevolence and friendship for gratifying him, if he deserves it, in that dearest wish of 
every poetic bosom — to be distinguished. He begs his readers, particularly the learned and 
the polite, who may honour him with a perusal, that they will make every allowance for 
education and circumstances of life ; but if, after a fair, candid, and impartial criticism, he 
shall stand convicted of dulness and nonsense, let him be done by as he would in that case do 
bv others — let him be condemned, without mercy, to contempt and oblivion. 



ARCHIBALD HASTIE, ESQ. 



MEMBER OF PARLIAMENT FOR PAI9LE5Z, 



EMBELLISHED EDITION 



8Tfre SEorfts antr IHemotrs of a ©teat 9*ti 



IN "5VTI08B SENTIMENTS OF FREEDOM HE SHUHiS, 



AND WHOSE PICTURES OF SOCIAL AND DOMESTIC LIFE HE LOVES, 



VR MSFEOTFOtXY \KO GEATEFUIiLY INSCRIBED, 



ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. 






ti:l^ IPS 










DEDICATION. 



TO THE 

NOBLEMEN AND GENTLEMEN 

OF THE 

CALEDONIAN HUNT, 



[On the title-page of the second or Edinburgh edition, were these words, " Poems, chiefly in the Scottish 
Dialect, by Robert Burns, printed for the Author, and sold by "William Creech, 1787." The motto of the 
Kilmarnock edition was omitted : a very numerous list of Subscribers followed: the volume was printed by 
the celebrated Smellie.] 



Mr Lords and Gentlemen: 

A Scottish Bard, proud of the name, and whose highest ambition is to sing in his 
country's service, where shall he so properly look for patronage as to the illustrious names of 
his native land : those who bear the honours and inherit the virtues of their ancestors ? The 
poetic genius of my country found me, as the prophetic bard Elijah did Elisha — at the 
plough, and threw ner inspiring mantle over me. She bade me sing the loves, the joys, the 
rural scenes and rural pleasures of my native soil, in my native tongue ; I tuned my wild, 
artless notes as she inspired. She whispered me to come to this ancient metropolis of Cale- 
donia, and lay my Songs under your honoured protection : I now obey her dictates. 

Though much indebted to your goodness, I do not approach you, my Lords and 
Gentlemen, in the usual style of dedication, to thank you for past favours : that path is so 
hackneyed by prostituted learning that honest rusticity is ashamed of it. Nor do I present 
this address with the venal soul of a servile author, looking for a continuation of those 
favours: I was bred to the plough, and am independent. I come to claim the common 
Scottish name with you, my illustrious countrymen ; and to tell the world that I glory in the 
title. I come to congratulate my country that the blood of her ancient heroes still runs 
uncontaminated, and that from your courage, knowledge, and public spirit, she may expect 
protection, wealth, and liberty. In the last place, I come to proffer my warmest wishes to 
the great fountain of honour, the Monarch of the universe, for vour welfare and happiness. 



DEDICATION. 

When you go forth to waken the echoes, in the ancient ai. J favourite amusement of your 
forefathers, may Pleasure ever be of your party : and may social joy await your return ! 
When harassed in courts or camps with the jostlings of bad men and bad measures, may the 
honest consciousness of injured worth attend your return to your native seats ; and may 
domestic happiness, with a smiling welcome, meet you at your gates ! May corruption 
shrink at your kindling indignant glance ; and may tyranny in the ruler, and licentiousness 
in the people equally find you an inexorable foe ! 

I have the honour to be, 
With the sincerest gratitude and highest respect, 
My Lords and Gentlemen. 

Your most devoted humble servant, 

ROBERT BURNS. 

Eotwrubgh, April 4,17^7 



PREFACE. 



t cannot give to lay country this embellished edition of one of its favourite poets 
without stating that I have deliberately omitted several pieces of verse ascribed to Burns 
by other editors, who too hastily, and I think on insufficient testimony, admitted them 
among his works. If I am unable to share in the hesitation expressed by one of them 
on the authorship of the stanzas on " Pastoral Poetry," I can as little share in the feel- 
ings with which they have intruded into the charmed circle of his poetry such composi- 
tions as " Lines on the Ruins of Lincluden College," " Verses on the Destruction of the 
Woods of Drumlanrig," " Verses written on a Marble Slab in the Woods of Aberfeldy," 
and those entitled " The Tree of Liberty." These productions, with the exception of 
the last, were never seen by any one even in the handwriting of Burns, and are one 
and all wanting in that original vigour of language and manliness of sentiment which 
distinguish his poetry. With respect to " The Tree of Liberty" in particular, a subject 
dear to the heart of the bard, can any one conversant with his genius imagine that he 
welcomed its growth or celebrated its fruit with such " capon craws" as these ? 

" Upo* this tree there grows sic fruit, 

Its virtues a* can tell, man ; 
It raises man aboon the brute, 

It mak's him ken himsel', man. 
Gif ance the peasant taste a bifc, 

He 's greater than a lord, man, 
A n' wi' a beggar shares a mite 

O' a' he can afford, man." 

There are eleven stanzas, of which the best, compared with the " A man's a man for 
a' that" of Burns, sounds like a cracked pipkin against the " heroic clang" of a Da- 
mascus blade. That it is extant in the handwriting of the poet cannot be taken as a 
proof that it is his own composition, against the internal testimony of utter want of all the 
marks by which we know him — the Burns'-stamp, so to speak, which is visible on all 
that ever came from his pen. Misled by his handwriting, I inserted in my former 
edition of his works an epitaph, beginning 

" Here lies a rose a budding rose," 



PREFACE. 

the composition of Shenstone, and which is to be found in the churchyard of Hales-Owen. 
as it is not included in every edition of that poet's acknowledged works, Burns, who was 
an admirer of his genius, had, it seems, copied it with his own hand, and hence my error. 
If I hesitated about the exclusion of " The Tree of Liberty/' and its three false brethren, 
I could have no scruples regarding the fine song of " Evan Banks," claimed and justly 
for Miss Williams by Sir Walter Scott, or the humorous song called " Shelah O'Neal," 
composed by the late Sir Alexander Boswell. When I have stated that I have ar- 
ranged the Poems, the Songs, and the Letters of Burns as nearly as possible in the 
order in which they were written ; that I have omitted no piece of either verse or prose 
which bore the impress of his hand, nor included any hy which his high reputation 
would likely be impaired, I have said all that seems necessary to be said, save that the 
following letter came too late for insertion in its proper place : it is characteristic and 
'worth a place any where. 

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM 



Co Wt. &rrf)tfcalt) 2atme. 

Mossgicl, YMh Nov. 1786. 
Dear Sir, ' 

I have along with this sent the two volumes of Ossian, with the remaining volume of the Songs. 
Ossian I am not in such a hurry about ; but I wish the Songs with the volume of the Scotch Poets 
returned as soon as they can conveniently be dispatched. If they are left at Mr. "Wilson, the book 
seller's shop, Kilmarnock, they will easily reach me. 

My most respectful compliments to Mr. and Mrs. Laurie ; and a Poet's warmest wishes for their 
happiness to the young ladies ; particularly the fair musician, whom I think much better qualified 
than ever David was, or could be, to charm an evil spirit out of a Saul. 

Indeed, it needs not the feelings of a poet to be interested in the welfare of one of the sweetest 
scenes of domestic peace and kindred love that ever I saw ; as I think the peaceful unity of Si 
Margarsi'a Hill can only be excelled by the harmonious concord of the Apocalyptic Zion. 

I am, dear S?ir ; y<njr? sincerely, 

Kobert Bur&'*. 



THE 

POETICAL WORKS 

OP 

ROBERT BURNS. 



U 

mi tit ex. 

A DIRGE. 



(This is one of the earliest of the poet's recorded comf&slwcty; ! 5t 
was written before the death of his father, and is called by Gilbert 
Bums, ' a juvenile production.' To walk by a river while ficoJed, 
©- through a wood on a rough winter day, and hear the scorm howl- 
ing among the leafless trees, exalted the poet's thoughts. " In 
such a season," he said, "just after a train of misfortunes, I com- 
posed Winter, a Dirge."] 



The wintry west extends his blast, 

And hail and rain does blaw \ 
Or the stormy north sends driving forth 

The blinding sleet and snaw : 
While tumbling brown, the burn comes down, 

And roars frae bank to brae , 
And bird and beast in covert rest. 

And pass the heartless day. 

'* The sweeping blast, the sky o'ercastj" 1 

The joyless winter day 
Let others fear, to me more dear 

Than all the pride of May : 
The tempest's howl, it sooths my soul. 

My griefs it seems to join ; 
The leafless trees my fancy please, 

Their fate resembles mine ! 

Thou Power Supreme, whose mighty scheme 

These woes of mine fulfil, 
Here, firm, I rest, they must be best, 

Because they are Thy will ! 
Then all I want (O, do thou grant 

This one request of mine !) 
Since to enjoy Thou dost deny, 

Assist me to resign ! 



II. 

THE 

DEATH AND DYING WORDS 

OF 

$oor JftaUte, 

THE AUTHOR'S ONLY PET YOWL". 

AN UNCO MOURNFU* TALE. 

[This tale is partly true ; the poet's pet ewe got entangled m iier 
tether, and tumbled into a ditch ; the face of ludicrous and awkward 
sorrow with which tins was related by Hughoc, the herd-boy, amused 
Burns so much, who was on his way to the plough, that he immedi 
ately composed the poem, and repeated it to his brother Gilbert when 
they met in the evening ; the field where the poet held the plough- 
and the ditch into which poor Mailie fell are still pointed out.] 

As Mailie, an' her lambs thegither, 
Were ae day nibbling on the tether 
Upon her cloot she coost a hitch, 
An' owre she warsl'd in the ditch : 
There, groaning, dying, she did lie, 
"When Hughoc 1 he cam doytin by. 
Wi' glowing e'en an' lifted ban's, 
Poor Hughoc like a statue stan's ; 
He saw her days were near-hand ended. 
But, waes my heart ! he could na mend it ! 
He gaped wide but naething spak — 
At length poor Mailie silence brak. 

" Q thou, whose lamentable face 
Appears to mourn my woefu' case ! 
My dying words attentive hear, 
An' bear them to my master dear. 

" Tell him, if e'er again he keep 
As muckle gear as buy a sheep, 
O bid him never tie them mair 
Wi' wicked strings o' hemp or hair I 
But ca' them out to park or hill, 
Asa' let them wander at their will ; 



i 



» A neibor herd-calls n. 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



So may his flock increase, and grow 
To scores o' lambs, an' packs of woo' ! 

" Tell him he was a master kin* 
An' ay was gude to me an' mine ; 
An' now my dying charge I gie him, 
My helpless lambs, I trust them wi' him. 

" O, bid him save their harmless lives 
Frae dogs, and tods, an' butchers' knives ! 
But gie them guid cow-milk their fill, 
Till they be fit to fend themsel ; 
An' tent them duly, e'en an' morn, 
Wi' teats o' hay, an' ripps o' corn. 

" An' may they never learn the gaets 
Of ither vile, wanrestfu' pets ! 
To slink thro' slaps, an' reave an' steal 
At stacks o' pease, or stocks o' kail. 
So may they, like their great forbears, 
For monie a year come thro' the sheers ; 
So wives will gie them bits o' bread, 
An' bairns greet for them when they're dead. 

" My poor toop-lamb, my son an' heir, 
O, bid him breed him up wi' care ; 
An' if he live to be a beast, 
To pit some havins in his breast ! 
An' warn him what I winna name, 
To stay content wi' yowes at hame, 
An' no to rin an' wear his cloots, 
Like ither menseless, graceless brutes. 

" An' niest my yowie, silly thing, 
Gude keep thee frae a tether string ! 
O, may thou ne'er forgather up 
Wi' ony blastit, moorland toop, 
But ay keep mind to moop an' mell 
Wi' sheep o' credit like thysel ! 

" And now, my bairns, wi' my last breath 
I lea'e my blessin wi' you baith : 
An' when you think upo' your mithei, 
Mind to be kind to ane anither. 

" Now, honest Hughoc, dinna fail 
To tell my master a' my tale ; 
An' bid him burn this cursed tether, 
An', for thy pains, thou'se get my blather." 

This said, poor Mailie turn'd her head, 
And clos'd her een amang the dead. 



in. 

(Burns, when he calls on the bards of Ayr r.nd Doon to join in t kl <> 
lament for M ailie, intimates that he regards himself as a poet. Hogg 
volls it a very elegant morsel : but lays that it resembles too closely 
"The Ewieand the Crooked Horn," to be admiral as original : the 
Shepherd might have remembered that they both resemble Sempill's 
" Life and Death of the Piper of Kilbarchan."] 

Lament in rhyme, lament in prose, 
Wi' saut tears trickling down your nosy 5 



Our bardie's fate is at a close, 

Past a' remead ; 

The last sad cape-stane of his woes ; 

Poor Mailie's dend. 

It's no the loss o' warl's gear, 
That could sae bitter draw the tear, 
Or male our bardie, dowie, wear 

The mourning weed : 
He's lost a friend and neebor dear, 

In Mailie dead. 

Thro' a' the toun she trotted by him ; 
A lang half-mile she could descry him ; 
Wi' kindly bleat, when she did spy him, 

She ran wi' speed : 
A friend mair faithfu' ne'er cam nigh him 

Than Mailie dead. 

I wat she was a sheep o' sense, 
An' could behave hersel wi' mense : 
I'll say't, she never brak a fence, 

Thro' thievish greed. 
Our bardie, lanely, keeps the spence 

Sin' Mailie's dead. 

Or, if he wanders up the howe, 
Her living image in her yowe, 
Comes bleating to him, owre the knowe, 

For bits 0' bread , 
An' down the briny pearls rowe 

For Mailie dead. 

She was nae get 0' moorland tips, 1 

Wi' tawted ket, an' hairy hips ; 

For her forbears were brought in ships 

Frae yont the Tweed ; 
A bonier fleesh ne'er cross'd the clips 

Than Mailie's dead. 

Wae worth the man wha first did shape 
That vile, wanchancie thing — a rape ! 
It maks guid fellows girn an' gape, 

Wi' chokin dread ; 
An' Robin's bonnet wave wi' crape, 

For Mailie dead, 

O, a' ye bards on bonnie Doon . 
An' wha on Ayr your chanters tune i 
Come, join the melancholious croon 

O' Robin's reed ! 
His hgart will never get aboon ! 

His Mailie's dead ' 



VARIATION. 



' She was nae get o' runted rams, 
Wi' woo' like goats an' legs like trauai, 
She was the flower o' Fairlie lamb3, 

A famous breed ! 
Now Robin, greetin, chews the hii'me 

(V Mailie dead.' 



OF ROBE LIT BURN3. 



IV. 

§is$t HEptetk to 39abte, 

A BROTHER POET. 



1 In the summer of 1784, Burns, while at work in the garden, re- 
lated this Epistle to his brother Gilbert, who was much pleased 
with the performance, which he considered equal if not superior to 
some of Allan Ramsay's Epistles, and said if it were printed he had 
tw» doubt that it would be well received by people of taste.] 



-January, [17^4.1 



While winds frae aff Ben-Lomond blaw 
And bar the doors wi' driving snaw. 

And hing us owre the ingle, 
I set me down to pass the time, 
And spin a verse or twa o' rhyme, 

In hamely westlin jingle. 
While frosty winds blaw in the drift, 

Ben to the chimla lug, 
I grudge a wee the great folks' gift, 
That live sae bien an' snug : 
I tent less and want less 
Their roomy fire-side ; 
But hanker and canker 
To see their cursed pride. 



It's hardly in a body's power 

To keep, at times, frae being sour, 

To see how things are shar'd ; 
How best o' chiels are whiles in want, 
While coofs on countless thousands rant, 
And ken na how to wair't ; 
-But Davie, lad, ne'er fash your head, 

Tho' we hae little gear, 
We're fit to win our daily bread, 
As lang's we're hale and fier : 
" Mair spier na, nor fear na," • 

Auld age ne'er mind a feg, 
The last o't, the warst o't, 
Is only but to beg. 



To lie in kilns and barns at e'en 

When banes are craz'd, and blind is thin, 

Is, doubtless, great distress ! 
Yet then content could make us blest ; 
Ev'n then, sometimes we'd snatch a taste 

O' truest happiness. 
The honest heart that's free frae a' 

Intended fraud or guile, 
However Fortune kick the ba', 
Has ay some cause to smile : 
And mind still, you'll find still, 

A comfort this nae sma' ; 
Nae mair then, we'll care thee, 
Nae farther we can fa* 



What th o', like commoners of air, 
We wander out we know not where, 

But either house or hall ? 
Yet nature's charms, the hills and woods, 
The sweeping vales, and foaming floods. 

Are free alike to all. 
In days when daisies deck the ground. 

And blackbirds whistle clear, 
With honest jay cm hearts will bound 
To see the coming year : 

On braes when we please, then, 

We'll sit and sowth a tune ; 
Syne rhyme till't we 11 time till't, 
And sing 't when we hae done. 



It's no in titles nor in rank ; 

It's no in weaith like Lon'on bank, 

To purchase peace and rest ; 
It's no in makin muckle mair ; 
It's no in books, it's no in lear, 

To make us truly blest ; 
If happiness hae not her seat 

And centre in the breast, 
We may be wise, or rich, or great, 
But never can be blest : 

Nae treasures, nor pleasures, 

Could make us happy lang ; 
The heart ay's the part ay 

That makes us right or wrang. 



Think ye, that sic as you and I, 

Wha drudge and drive thro' wet an' dry, 

Wi' never-ceasing toil; 
Think ye, are we less blest than they, 
Wha scarcely tent us in their way, 

As hardly worth their while ? 

Alas ! how aft, in haughty mood 

God's creatures they oppress ! 

Or else, neglecting a' that's guid, 

They riot in excess ! 

Baith careless and fearless 
Of either heaven or hell ! 
Esteeming and deeming 
Its a' an idle tale ! 



Then let us cheerfu' acquiesce ; 
Nor make our scanty pleasures less, 

By pining at our state ; 
And, even should misfortunes come, 
I, here wha sit, hae met wi' some, 

An's thankfu' for them yet. 
They gie the wit of age to youth ; 

They let us ken oursel' ; 
They make us see the naked truth, 
The real guid and ill. 
Tho' losses, and crosses, 

Be lessons right severe, 
There's wit there, ye'll get there 
Ye'll find nae other where. 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



But tent me, Davie, ace o' hearts ! 

(To say aught less wad wrang the cartes 

And flatt'ry I detest,) 
This life has joys for yon and I ; 
And joys that riches ne'er could buy : 

And joys the very best. 
There's a' the pleasures o' the heart, 

The lover an' the frien' ; 
Ye hae your Meg your dearest part, 
And I my darling Jean ! 

It warms me, it charms me, 

To mention but her name : 
It heats me, it beets me, 
And sets me a' on flame ! 



O, all ye pow'rs who rule above I 
Thou, whose very self art love ! 

Thou know'st my words sincere ! 
The life-blood streaming thro' rny heart, 
Or my more dear immortal part, 

Is not more fondly dear ! 
When heart-corroding care and grief 

Deprive my soul of rest, 
Her dear idea brings relief 
And solace to my breast. 
Thou Being, All-seeing, 

O hear my fervent pray'r I 
Still take her, and make her 
Thy most peculiar care ! 



All hail, ye tender feelings dear ! 
The smile of love, the friendly tear, 

The sympathetic glow ! 
Long since, this world's thorny ways 
Had numbered out my weary days, 

Had it not been for you ! 
Fate still lias blest me with a friend, 

In every care and ill : 
And oft a more endearing band, 
A tie more tender still. 
It lightens, it brightens 
The tenebrific scene, 
To meet with, and greet with 
My Davie or my Jean ! 



O, how that name inspires my style ! 
The words come skelpin, rank and file, 

Amaist before I ken ! 
The ready measure rins as fine, 
As Phoebus and the famous Nine 

"Were glowrin owre my pen. 
My spaviet Pegasus will limp, 

'Till ance lies fairly het ; 
And then he'll hilch, and stilt, and jimp, 
An' rin an unco fit : 

But least then, the beast then 

Shonld rue this hasty ride, 
I'll light now, and dight now 
His sweaty, wizen'd hide. 



JEeccmtJ lEptstU to Bafcte, 



A BROTHER POET.. 



[David Sillar, to whom these epistles are addressed, was at tfv.isa 
£ tJ 2 ns ister of a country school) and was welcome to Bums both 3* 
a scholar and a writer of verse. This epistle ne prefixed to his poems 
printed at Kilmarnock in the year 1739 : he loved to speak of his early 
comrade, and supplied Walker with soma very valuable anecdotes; 
he 'lied one of the magistrates of Irvine, on the 2nd of May, 1830, at 
th*; age of seventy.] 



ACLD NIBOR, 

I'm three times doubly o'er your debtor, 
For you auld-farrent, frien'ly letter ; 
Tho' I maun say't, I doubt ye flatter, 

Ye speak sae fair, 
For my puir, silly, rhymin' clatter 

Borne less maun sair. 

Hale be your heart, hale be your fiddle ; 
Lang may your elbuck jink and diddle, 
To cheer you thro' the weary widdle 

O' war'ly cares, 
Till bairns' bairns kindly cuddle 

Your auld, gray hairs. 

But Davie, lad, I'm red ye're glaikit ; 
I'm tauld the Muse ye hae negleckit ; 
An' gif it's sae, ye sud be licket 

Until ye fyke ; 
Sic hauns as you sud ne'er be faiket, 

Be hain't wha like. 

For me, I'm on Parnassus' brink, 

Bavin' the words to gar them clink ; 

Whyles daez't wi' love, whyles daez't wi' dririk, 

Wi' jads or masons ; 
An' whyles, but ay owre late, I think 

Braw sober lessons. 

Of a' the thoughtless sons o' man, 
Commen' me to the Bardie clan ; 
Except it be some idle plan 

O' rhymin' clink, 
The devil-haet, that I sud ban, 

They ever think. 

Nae thought, nae view, nae scheme o' livin', 
Nae cares to gie us joy or grievin'; 
But just the pouchie put the nieve in, 

An' while ought's there* 
Then hiltie skiltie, we gae scrievin', 

An' fash nae mair. 

Leeze me on rhyme ! it's aye a treasure, 
My chief, amaist my only pleasure, 
At hame, a-fiel', at wark, or leisure, 

. The Muse, poor hizzk I 
Tho' rough an' raploch be her measure. 
She's seldom lazy. 

Haud to the Muse, my dainty Davie : 
Tho warl' may play you moaie a shavie i 




bairns' "bairn 



OF ROBKRT BURNS. 



Rut for the Muse, she'll never leave ye, 
Tho' e'er sa puir, 

Na, even tho' limpin' wi' the spavie 

Frae door to door. 



VI. 
&&&«** to tf)e Bnl 

« O Prince ! O Chief of many throned Pow"rs 
That led t'n' embattled Seraphim to war." 

Milton. 



The beautiful and relenting spiritin which this fine poem finishes 
moved the heart of one of the coldest of our critics. " It was, I 
think." says Gilbert Burns, " in the winter of 1784, as we were going 
with carts for coals to the family fire, and I could yet point out the 
particular spot, that Robert first repeated to me the " Address to the 
Deil." The idea of the address was suggested to him by running 
over in his mind the many ludicrous accounts we have of that august 
personage."] 

O thou ! whatever title suit thee, 
Auld Hornie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie, 
Wha in yon cavern grim an' sootie, 

Closed under hatches 
Spairges about the brunstane cootie, 

To scaud poor wretches ! 

Hear me, auld Hangie, for a wee, 
An' let poor damned bodies be ; 
I'm sure sma' pleasure it can gie, 

E'en to a deuj 
To skelp an' scaud poor dogs like me, 

An' hear us squeel ! 

Great is thy pow'r, an' great thy fame ; 
Far kend an' noted is thy name ; 
An' tho' yon lowin heugh's thy hame, 

Thou travels far ; 
An', faith ! thou's neither lag nor lame, 

Nor blate nor scaur. 

Whylcs, ranging like a roaring lion, 
For prey, a' holes an' corners tryin ; 
Whyles on the strong-wing' d tempest flyin, 

Tirlin the kirks ; 
Whyles, in the human bosom pryin, 

Unseen thou lurks. 

I've heard my reverend Graunie say, 
In lanely glens ye like to stray ; 
Or where auld-ruin'd castles, gray, 

Nod to the moon, 
Ye fright the nightly wand'rer's way 

Wi' eldritch croon. 

When twilight did my Graunie summon, 
To say her prayers, douce, honest woman ! 
Aft yont the dyke she's heard you bummin, 

Wi' eerie drone ; 
Or, rusthn, thro' the boortries com in, 

Wi 1 heavy groan. 

Ae dreary, windy, winter night, 

The stars shot down wV sklentin light, 



Wi' you, mysel, I gat a fright 

Ayont the lough ; 

Ye, like a rash-buss, stood in sight, 

Wi' waving sough. 

The cudgel in my nieve did shake, 
Each bristl'd hair stood like a stake, 
When wi' an eldritch, stoor quaick — quaick 

Amang the springs, 
Awa ye squatter' d, like a drake, 

Oji whistling wings. 

Let warlocks grim, an' wither'd hags, 
Tell how wi' you, on ragweed na^s, 
They skim the muirs an' dizzy crags, 

Wi' wicked speed ; 
And in kirk-yards renew their leagues 

Owre howkit dead. 

Thence countra wives, wi' toil an' pain, 
May plunge an' plunge the kirn in vain : 
For, oh ! the yellow treasure's taen 

By witching skill ; 
An' dawtit, twal-pint hawkie's gaen 

As yell's the bill. 

Thence mystic knots mak great abuse 

On young guidmen, fond, keen, an' crouse { 

When the best wark-lume i' the house, 

By cantrip wit, 
Is instant made no worth a louse, 

Just at the bit. 

When thowes dissolve the snawy hoord. 
An' float the jinglin icy-boord, 
Then water-kelpies haunt the foord, 

By your direction ; 
An' nighted trav'llers are allur'd 

To their destruction. 

An' aft your moss-traversing spunkies 
Decoy the wight that late an' drunk is, 
The bleezin, curst, mischievous monkeys 

Delude his eyes, 
Till in some miry slough he sunk is, 

Ne'er mair to rise. 

When masons' mystic word an' grip 
In storms an' tempests raise you up, 
Some cock or cat your rage maun stop 

Or, strange to tell ! 
The youngest brother ye wad whip 

Aff straught to hell ! 

Lang syne, in Eden's bonie yard, 
When youthfu' lovers first were pair d, 
An' all the soul of love they shard, 

The raptur'd hour, 
Sweet on the fragrant, flow'ry sward, 

In shady bow'r : 

Then you, ye auld, snick-drawing dog ! 

Ye came to Paradise incog. 

An' playd on man a cursed brogue, 

(Black be your fa' I) 
An' gied tho infant warld a shog, 
I 'Maist ruin'd a' 



G 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



D'ye mind that day, when in a bizz, 
Wi' reekit duds, an' reestit gizz, 
Ye did present your smoutie phiz 

'Mang better folk, 
An' sklented on the man of Uzz 

Your spitefu' joke ? 

An' how ye gat him i' your thrall, 
An' brak him out o' house an' hall, 
While scabs an' botches did him gall, 

Wi' bitter claw, 
An' lows'd his ill tongu'd, wicked scawl, 

Was warst ava ? 

But a' your doings to rehearse, 

Your wily snares and an' fechtin fierce, 

Sin' that day Michael did you pierce, 

Down to this time, 
Wad ding a' Lallan tongue, or Erse, 

In prose or rhyme. 

An' now, auld Cloots, I ken ye' re thinkin, 
A certain Bardie's rantin, drinkin, 
Some luckless hour will send him linkin 

To your black pit ; 
But, faith ! he'll turn a corner jinkin, 

An' cheat you yet. 

But, fare you weel, auld Nickie-ben ! 
O wad ye tak a thought an' men' ! 
Ye aiblins might — I dinna ken — 

Still hae a stake — 
I'm wae to think upo' yon den, 

Ev'n for your sake ! 



VII. 

THE AULD FARMER'S 

NEW-YEAR MORNING SALUTATION TO HIS 

&ult) i&arc j#taggte, 

ON GIVING HER THE ACCUSTOMED RIPP OF CORN 
TO HANSEL IN THE NEW YEAR. 

["Whenever Burns has occasion," says Hogg, "to address or men- 
tion any subordinate being, however mean, even a mouse or a flower, 
then there is a gentle pathos in it that awakens the finest feelings 
of the heart." The Auld Farmer of Kyle has the spirit of a knight- 
errant, and loves his mare according to the rules of chivalry; and 
well he might: she carried him safely home from markets, triumph- 
antly from wedding-brooses; she ploughed the stiffestland ; faced the 
steepest brae, and, moreover, bore home his bonnie bride with a con- 
sciousness of theloveliness of the load.] 

A guid New-year I wish thee, Maggie ! 
Hae, there's a rip to thy auld baggie : 
Tho' thou's howe-backit, now, an' knaggie, 

I've seen the day 
Thou could hae gaen like onie staggie 

Out-owre the lay. 

Tho' now thou's dewie, stiff, an crazy, 
An' thy auld hide as white's a daisy, 
['ve seen thee dappl't, sleek, and glaizie, 

A bonny gray : 
lie should been tight that daur't to raize thee 

Ance in a day. 



Thou ance was i' the foremost rank, 
A hlly, buirdly, steeve, an' swank, 
An' set weel down a shapely shank, 

As e'er tread yird ; 
An' could hae flown out-owre a stank, 

Like ony bird. 

It's now some nine-an '-twenty year, 
Sin' thou was my guid-father's Meere ; 
He gied me thee, o' tocher clear, 

An' fifty mark ; 
Tho' it was sma', 'twas weel-won gear, 

An' thou was stark. 

When first I gaed to woo my Jenny, 
Ye then was trottin wi' your minnie : 
Tho' ye was trickie, slee, an' funny, 

Ye ne'er was donsie ? 
But hamely, tawie, quiet an' cannie, 

An' unco sonsie. 

That day, ye prane'd wi' muckle pride, 
When ye bure hame my bonny bride j 
An' sweet an' gracefu' she did ride, 

Wi' maiden air ! 
3£yle-Stewart I could bragged wide, 

For sic a pair 

Tho' now ye dow but hoyte and hoble, 
An' wiutle like a saumont-coble, 
That day, ye was a j inker noble, 

For heels an' win' ! 
An' ran them till they a' did wauble, 

Far, far, behin' ! 

When thou an' I were young an' skeigh, 

An' stable-meals at fairs were dreigh, 

How thou wad prance, an' snore, an' skreigb, 

An' tak the road ! 
Town's-bodies ran, an' stood abeigh, 

An' ca't thee mad. 

When thou was corn't, an' I was mellow, 
We took the road ay like a swallow : 
At Brooses thou had ne'er a fellow, 

For pith an' speed ; 
But ev'ry tail thou pay't them hollow, 

W^hare'er thou gaed. 

The sma', droop-rumpl't, hunter cattle, 
Might aiblins waur't thee for a brattle ; 
But sax Scotch miles thou try't their mettle, 

An' gar't them whaizle : 
Nae whip nor spur, but just a wattle 

0' saugh or hazle. 

Thou was a noble fittie-lan', 

As e'er in tug or tow was drawn . 

Aft thee an' I, in aught hours gaun, 

In guid March- weather, 
Hae turn'd sax rood beside our han', 

For days thegither. 

Thou never braindg't, an' fetch't, an' fliskit, 
But thv auld tail thou wad hae whiskit, 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



An' spread abrecd thy weel-fill'd brisket, 
Wi' pith an 7 pow'r, 

'Till spritty knowes wad rair't and risket, 
An' slype t owre. 

When frosts lay lang, an' snaws were deep, 
An' threaten'd labour back to keep, 
I gied thy cog a wee-bit heap 

Aboon the timmer ; 
I ken'd my Maggie wad na sleep 

For that, or simmer. 

In cart or car thou never reestit ; 
The steyest brae thou wad hae fac't it ; 
Thou never lap, an' sten't, an' breastit, 

Then stood to blaw ; 
But just thy step a wee thing hastit, 

Thou snoov't awa. 

My pleugh is now thy bairn-time a' ; 
Four gallant brutes as e'er did draw ; 
Forbye sax mae, I've sell't awa, 

That thou hast nurst : 
They drew me thretteen pund an' twa, 

The vera warst. 

Monie a sair daurk we twa hae wrought, 
An' wi' the weary warl' fought ! 
An' monie an anxious day, I thought 

We wad be beat ! 
Yet here to crazy age we're brought, 

Wi' something yet. 

And think na, my auld, trusty servan', 
That now perhaps thou's less deservin, 
An' thy auld days may end in starvin, 

For my last fow, 
A heapit stimpart, I'll reserve ane 

Laid by for you. 

We've worn to crazy years thegither ; 
We'll toyte about wi' ane anither ; 
Wi' tentie care I'll flit thy tether, 

To some hain'd rig, 
Whare ye may nobly rax your leather, 

Wi' sma' fatigue. 



VIII. 



L The vehement nationality of this poem is but a small part of its 
merit The haggis of the north is the minced pie of the south ; 
both are characteristic of the people: the ingredients which compose 
the former are all of Scottish growth, including the bag which con- 
tains them: the ingredients of the latter are gathered chiefly from 
the four quarters of the globe : the haggis is the triumph of poverty, 
the minced pie the triumph of wealth.] 



Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face, 
Great chieftain o' the puddin-race ! 
Aboon them a' ye tak your place, 

Painch, tripe, or thairm : 
Weel are ye wordy o' a grace 

As lang's my arm. 



The groaning trencher there ye fill, 
Your hurdies like a distant hill, 
Your pin wad help to mend a mill 

In time o' need, 
While thro' your pores the dews distil 

Like amber bead. 

His knife see rustic-labour dight. 
An' cut you up wi' ready slight, 
Trenching your gushing entrails bright 

Like onie ditch ; 
And then, O what a glorious sight, 

Warm-reekin, rich ! 

Then horn for horn they stretch an* strive, 
Deil tak the hindmost, on they drive, 
'Till a' their weel-swall'd kytes belyve 

Are bent like drums ; 
Then auld Guidman, maist like to rive, 

Bethankit hums. 

Is there that o'er his French ragout. 
Or olio that wad staw a sow, 
Or fricassee wad mak her spew 

Wi' perfect sconner, 
Looks down wi' sneering, scornfu' view 

On sic a dinner ? 

Poor devil ! see him owre his trash, 
As feckless as a wither' d rash, 
His spindle shank a guid whip-lash, 

His nieve a nit ; 
Thro' bloody flood or field to dash, 

how unfit ! 

But mark the rustic, haggis-fed, 

The trembling earth resounds his tread; 

Clap in hifi walie nieve a blade, 

He'll mak it whissle ; 
An' legs, an' arms, an' heads will sned, 

Like taps o' thrissle. 

Ye pow'rs wha mak mankind your care, 
And dish them out their bill o' fare, 
Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware 

That jaups in luggies j 
But, if ye wish her gratefu' pray'r, 

Gie her a Haggis ! 




UNDER THE PRESSURE OF VIOLENT ANGUISH. 

[" There was a certain period of my life," says Burns, " that my 
spirit was broke by repeated losses and disasters, which threatened 
and indeed effected the ruin of my fortune. My body, too, was at- 
tacked by that most dreadful distemper, a hypochondria, or con- 
firmed melancholy. In this wretched state, the recollection or 
which makes me yet shudder, I hung my harp on the willow- 
trees, except in some lucid intervals, in one of which I composed t±0 
following."] 

O Thou Great Being ! what Thou art 
Surpasses me to know : 
< Yet sure I am, that known to Thee 
Are all Thy works below. 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



Thy creature here before Thee stands, 
All wretched and distrest ; 

Yet sure those ills that wring my soul 
Obey Thy high behest. 

Sure Thou, Almighty, canst not act 

From cruelty or wrath ! 
O. free my weary eyes from tears, 

Or close them fast in death ! 

But if I must afflicted b3j 

To suit some wise design | 
Then, man my soul with firm resolves 

To bear and not repine ! 




IN THE PROSPECT OF DEATH. 

[1 have heard the third verse of this very moving Prayer quoted by 
scrupulous men as a proof that the poet imputed his errors to the 
Being who had endowed him with wild and unruly passions. The 
meaning is very different: Burns felt the torrent-strength of passion 
overpowering his resolution, and trusted that God would be merci- 
ful to the errors of one on whom he had bestowed such o'erroostering 
gifts.] 

O thou unknown, Almighty Cause 

Of all my hope and fear ! 
In whose dread presence, ere an hour 

Perhaps I must appear ! 

If I have wander' d in those paths 

Of life I ought to shun ; 
As something, loudly, in my breast, 

Remonstrates I have done : 

Thou know'st that Thou hast formed me, 

With passions wild and strong ; 
And list'ning to their witching voice 

Has often led me wrong. 

Where human weakness has come short, 

Or frailty stept aside, 
Do Thou, All-Good ! for such thou art, 

In shades of darkness hide. 

Where with intention I have err'd, 

No other plea I have, 
But, Thou art good ; and goodness still 

Delighteth to forgive. 



XL 

ON THE SAME OCCASION. 

[These verses the ooet, in his common-place book, calls " Misgiv- 
ings in the Hour of Despondency and Prospect of Death." He else- 
where tays U.ey were composed when fainting-fits and other alarm- 
ing symptoms of a pleurisy, or some other dangerous disorder, first 
out nature on the alarm.] 

Why am I loth to leave this earthly scene ? 
Have I so found it full of pleasing charms ? 



Some drops of joy with draughts of ill between, 
Some gleams of sunshine 7 mid renewing 
storms : 
Is it departing pangs my soul alarms ? 

Or Death's unlovely, dreary, dark, abode ? 
For guilt, for guilt, my terrors are in arms ; 
I tremble to approach an angry God, 
And justly smart beneath his sin-avenging rod. 

Fain would I say, " Forgive my foul offence !" 

Fain promise never more to disobey ; 
But, should my Author health again dispense, 

Again I might desert fair virtue's way : 
Again in folly's path might go astray ; 

Again exalt the brute and sink the man ; 
Then how should I for heavenly mercy pray, 

Who act so counter heavenly mercy's plan? 
Who sin so oft have mourn'd, yet to temptation 
ran? 

O Thou, great Governor of all below ! 

If I may dare a lifted eye to Thee, 
Thy nod can make the tempest cease to blow, 

Or still the tumult of the raging sea : 
With that controlling pow'r assist ev'n me, 

Those headlong furious passions to confine; 
For all unfit I feel my pow'rs to be, 

To rule their torrent in th' allowed line ; 
O, aid me with Thy help, Omnipotence Divine ! 



XII. 

m WLinttt Ktgbt. 

" Poor nalied wretches, wheresoe'er you are 
Thut bide the pelting of the pitiless storm ! 
Row Bhal! your housdess heads and unfed sides, 
Your looped and window'd raggedness defend yon, 
From seasons such as these ?" 

Shakspkarb. 

[" This poem," says my friend Thomas Carlyle, " is worth severa/ 
homilies on mercy, for it is the voice of Mercy herself. Burns, in 
deed, lives in sympathy : his soul rushes forth into all the realms of 
being : nothing that has existence can be indifferent to him."] 

When biting Boreas, fell and doure, 
Sharp shivers thro' the leafless bow'r ; 
When Phoebus gies a short-liv'd glow'r 

Far south the lift, 
Dim-darkening through the flaky show'r, 

Or whirling drifts 

Ae night the storm the steeples rocked, 
Poor labour sweet in sleep was locked, 
While burns, wi' snawy wreeths up-choked, 

Wild-eddying swirl, 
Or through the mining outlet bocked, 

Down headlong hurl. 

Listening, the doors an' winnocks rattle, 
1 thought me on the ourie cattle, 
Or silly sheep, wha bide this brattle 

0\ winter war, 
And through the drift, deep-lairing sprattle 

Beneath a scar. 



OF UOBHCT BORNS. 



Ilk happing bird, wee, helpless thing, 
Thai,, in the merry mouths o'spring, 
Delighted me to hear thee sing, 

What comes o' thee ? 
Whare wilt thou cow'r thy cluttering wing, 

An' close thy e'e ? 

Ev'n you on murd'ring errands toil'd. 
Lone from your savage homes exiled, 
The blood-stained roost, and sheep-cote spoiled 

My heart forgets, 
While pitiless the tempest wild 

Sore on you heats. 

Now Phoebe, in her midnight reign, 
Dark muffled, viewed the dreary plain ; 
Still crowding thoughts, a pensive train, 

Rose in my soul, 
When on my /ear this plaintive strain 

Slow, solemn, stole : — 

u Blow, blow, ye winds, with heavier gust ! 
And freeze, thou bitter-biting frost ; 
Descend, ye chilly, smothering snows ! 
Not all your rage, as now united, shows 
More hard uukindness, unrelenting, 
Vengeful malice unrepenting, 
Than heaven-illumined man on brother man 
bestows ; 
See stern oppression's iron grip, 
Or mad ambitions' gory hand, 
Sending, like blood-hounds from the slip, 
Woe, want, and murder o'er a land ! 
Even in the peaceful rural vale, 
Truth, weeping, tells the mournful tale, 
How pamper'd luxury, flattery by her side, 
The parasite empoisoning her ear, 
With all the servile wretches in the rear, 
Looks o'er proud property, extended wide ; 
And eyes the simple rustic hind, 

Whose toil upholds the glittering show, 
A creature of another kind, 
Some coarser substance, unrefin'd, 
Placed for her lordly use thus far, thus vile, 
below. 
Where, where is love's fond, tender throe, 
With lordly honour's lofty brow, 
The powers you proudly own ? 
Is there, beneath love's noble name, 
Can harbour, dark the selfish aim. 

To bless himself alone ! 
Mark maiden innocence a prey 

To love-pretending snares, 
This boasted honour turns away, 
Shunning soft pity's rising sway, 
Regardless of the tears and unavailing prayers ! 
Perhaps this hour, in misery's squalid nest, 
She strains your infant to her joyless breast, 
And with a mother's fears shrinks at the rock- 
ing blast ! 
Oh ye ! who, sunk in beds of down, 
Feel not a want but what yourselves create, 
Think, for a moment, on his wretched fate, 
Whom friends and fortune quite disown ! 



I'll satisfied iceen nature's clamorous call, 
Stretched on his straw he lays himself ta 
sleep, 
While through the ragged roof and chinky 
wall, 
Chill o'er his slumbers piles the drifty 
heap ! 
Think on the dungeon's grim confine, 
Where guilt and poor misfortune pine ! 
Guilt, erring man, relenting view 1 
But shall thy legal rage pursue 
The wretch, already crushed low 
By cruel fortune's undeserved blow ? 
Affliction's sons are brothers in distress, 
A brother to relieve, how exquisite the 
bliss !" 

I heard nae mair, for Chanticleer 
Shook off the pouthery snaw, 

And hailed the morning with a cheer — 
A cottage-rousing craw ! 

But deep this truth impressed my mind — 
Through all his works abroad, 

The heart benevolent and kind 
The most resembles God. 



XIII. 
ItUmorg?. 

A FRAGMENT. 

[«« I entirely agree," says Burns, " with the author of the Theory 
qf Moral Sentiments, that Remorse is the most painful sentiment 
that can embitter the human bosom ; an ordinary pitch of fortitude 
may bear up admirably well, under those calamities, in the procure- 
ment of which we ourselves have had no hand : but when our follies 
or crimes have made us wretched, to bear all with manly firmness, 
and at the same time have a proper penitential sense of our miscon- 
duct, is a glorious effort of self-command."] 

Of all the numerous ills that hurt our peace, 
That press the soul, or wring the mind with 

anguish, 
Beyond comparison the worst are those 
That to our folly or our guilt we owe. 
In every other circumstance, the mind, 
Has this to say, ' It was no deed of mine ;' 
But when to all the evil of misfortune 
This sting is added — ' Blame thy foolish self !' 
Or worser far, the pangs of keen remorse ; 
The torturing, gnawing consciousness of guilt, — 
Of guilt, perhaps, where we've involved others ; 
The young, the innocent, who fondly lov'd us. 
Nay, more, that very love their cause of ruin .' 
O burning hell ! in all thy store of torments, 
There's not a keener lash ! 
Lives there a man so firm, who, while his hear: 
Feels all the bitter horrors of his crime. 
Can reason down its agonizing throbs : 
And, after proper purpose of amendment. 
Can firmly force his jarring thoughts to peace I 
O, happy ! happy ! enviable man ! 
O glorious magnanimity of soul ! 



10 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



XIV. 

A CANTATA. 



I This inimitable poem, unknown to Currie and unheard of while 
the poet lived, was first given to the world, with other characteris- 
tic pieces, by Mr. Stewart of Glasgow, in the year 1801. Some have 
surmised that it is not the work of Burns ; but the parentage is cer- 
tain : the original manuscript at the time of its composition, in 1785, 
was put into the hands of Mr. Richmond of Mauchline, and after- 
wards given by Burns himself to Mr. Woodburn, factor of the laird 
of Craigengillan : the song of " For a' that, and a* that" was inserted 
by the poet, with his name, in the Musical Museum of February, 
1790. Cromek admired, yet did not, from overruling advice, print it 
in the Reliques, for which he was sharply censured by Sir V, alter 
Scott, in the Quarterly Revietv. The scene of the poem is in Mauch- 
line, where Poosie Nansie had her change-house. Only one copy in the 
hand-writing of Burns is supposed to exist ; and of it a very accu- 
rate fac-simile has been given.] 



RECITATIVO. 

When lyart leaves bestrow the yird, 
Or wavering like the bauckie-bird, 

Bedim cauld Boreas' blast ; 
When hailstanes drive wi' bitter skyfce 
And infant frosts begin to bite, 
In hoary cranreuch drest ; 
Ae night at e'en a merry core 
O' randie, gangrel bodies, 
In Poosie-Nansie's held the splore, 
To drink their orra duddies : 
Wi' quaffing and laughing, 

They ranted an' they sang ; 
Wi' jumping and thumping, 
The vera girdle rang. 

First, neist the fire, in auld red rags, 
Ane sat, weel brae'd wi' mealy bags, 

And knapsack a' in order ; 
His doxy lay within his arm, 
Wi' usquebae an' blankets warm — 

She blinket on her sodger : 
An' ay he gies the tozie drab 
The tither skelpin' kiss, 
While she held up her greedy gab 
Just like an aumous dish. 

Ilk smack still, did crack still, 

Just like a cadger's whip, 
Then staggering and swaggering 
He roar'd this ditty up — 



Tune — " Soldiers Joy" 

I am a son of Mars, 

Who have been in many wars, 

And show my cuts and scars 

Wherever I come ; 
This here was for a wench, 
And that other in a trench, 
When welcoming the French 

At the sound of the drum. 

Lai de daudle, &c. 

My 'prenticeship I past 

Where my leader breath'd his last, 



When the bloody die was cast. 

On the heights of Abram 1 
I served out my trade 
When the gallant game was played, 
And the Moro low was laid 

At the sound of the drum, 

Lai de daudle. &e. 

I lastly was with Curtis, 
Among the floating batt'ries, 
And there I left for witness 

An arm and a limb ; 
Yet let my country need me. 
With Elliot to head me, 
I'd clatter on my stumps 

At the sound of a drum. 

Lai de daudle, &e. 

And now tho' I must beg, 
With a wooden arm and leg, 
And many a tatter'd rag 

Hanging over my burn, 
I'm as happy with my wallet, 
My bottle and my callet, 
As when I used in scarlet 

To follow a drum. 

Lai de daudle, &c 



What tho' with hoary locks 
I must stand the winter shocks. 
Beneath the woods and rocks 

Oftentimes for a home, 
When the tother bag I sell, 
And the tother bottle tell, 
I could meet a troop of hell, 

At the sound of a drum. 

Lai de daudle, &c 

RECITATIVO. 



He ended ; and kebars sheuk, 

Aboon the chorus roar ; 
While frighted rattons backward leuk. 

And seek the benmost bore ; 
A fairy fiddler frae the neuk, 

He skirl'd out — encore ! 
But up arose the martial Chuck, 

And laid the loud uproar. 

AIR. 

Tune — " Soldier Laddie ." 

I once was a maid, tho' I cannot tell when ; 
A nd still my delight is in proper young men , 
Some one of a troop of dragoons was my daddie, 
No wonder I'm fond of a sodger laddie. 

Sing, Lai de dal, &c. 

The first of my loves was a swaggering blade, 
To rattle the thundering drum Avas his trade ; 
His leg was so tight, and his cheek was so 

ruddy, 
Transported I was with my sodger laddie. 

Sing, Lai dp dak -3;c- 



M 



* •<* 



•«^ 




— '-' 






mmmamm 



OF ROBERT BL'liNS. 



H 



But. the godly old chaplain left him in the 

lurch, 
The sword I forsook for the sake of the church ; 
He ventur'd the soul, and I risk'd the body, 
'Twas then I prov'd false to my sodger laddie. 
Sing, Lai de dal, &c. 

Full soon I grew sick of my sanctified sot, 
The regiment at large for a husband I got ; 
From the gilded spontoon to the fife I was 

ready, 
I asked no more but a sodger laddie. 

Sing, Lai de dal, &c. 

But the peace it redue'd me to beg in despair, 
Till I met my old boy in a Cunningham fair ; 
His rags regimental they flutter'd so gaudy ? 
My heart it rejoie'd at my sodger laddie. 

Sing, Lai de dal, &c. 

And now I have liv'd — I know not how long, 

And still I can join in a cup or a song ; 

But whilst with both hands I can hold the glass 

steady, 
Here's to thee, my hero, my sodger laddie. 
Sing, Lai de dal, &c. 

RECITATIVO. 

Poor Merry Andrew in the neuk, 

Sat guzzling wi' a tinkler hizzie ; 
They mind't na wha the chorus teuk, 

Between themselves they were sae busy : 
At length wi' drink and courting dizzy 

He stoitered up an' made a face ; 
Then turn r d, an' laid a smack on Grizzie, 

Syne tun'd his pipes wi' grave grimace. 



Tune — " Auld Sir Symon." 

Sir Wisdom's a fool when he's fou, 
Sir Knave-is a fool in a session ; 

lie's there but a 'prentice I trow, 
But I am a fool by profession. 

My grannie she bought me a beuk, 
And I held awa to the school ; 

I fear I my talent misteuk 

But what will ye hae of a fool ? 

For drink I would venture my neck, 
A hizzie's the half o' my craft, 

But what could ye other expect, 
Of ane that's avowedly daft ? 

I ance was ty'd up like a stirk, 
For civilly swearing and quaffing { 

I ance was abused in the kirk, 
For touzling a lass i' my daffin. 

Poor Andrew that tumbles for sport, 
Let naebody name wi' a jeer ; 

There's ev'n I'm tauld i' the court 
A tumbler ca'd the premier. 



Observ'd ye, yon reverend lad 
Males faces to tickle the mob ; 

He rails at our mountebank squa), 
Its rivalship just i' the job. 

And now my conclusion I'll tell, 
For faith I'm confoundedly dry ; 

The chiel that's a fool for himsel', 
Gude Ii — d ! he's far dafter than L 

RECITATIVO. 

Then neist outspak a raucle carlin, 
"Wha kent fii' weel to cleek the sterling, 
For monie a pursie she had hooked, 
And had in mony a well been ducked. 
Her dove had been a Highland laddie, 
But weary fa' the waefu' woodie ! 
Wi' sighs and sobs she thus began 
To wail her braw John Highlandman. 



Tune — " O an ye were dead, (/uidman-.* 

A Highland lad my love was born, 
The Lalland laws he held in scorn ; 
But he still was faithfu' to his clan, 
My gallant braw John Highlandman 



Sing, hey my braw John Highlandman ! 
Sing, ho my braw John Highlandman ! 
There's not a lad in a' the Ian' 
"Was match for my John Highlandman, 

With his philibeg an' tartan plaid, 
An' gude claymore down by his side, 
The ladies hearts he did trepan, 
My gallant braw John Highlandman. 
Sing, bey, &c. 

We ranged a' from Tweed to Spey, 
An' liv'd like lords and ladies gay ; 
For a Lalland face he feared none, 
My gallant braw John Highlandman, 
Sing, hey, &c. 

They banished him beyond the sea, 
But ere the bud was on the tree, 
Adown my cheeks the pearls ran 
Embracing my John Highlandman. 
Sing, hey, &c. 

But, och ! they catch'd him at the last, 
And bound him in a dungeon fast ; 
My curse upon them every one, 
They've hang'd my braw John Highlandman 
Sing, hey, &c. 

And now a widow, I must mourn, 
The pleasures that will ne'er return 



i2 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



No comfort but a hearty can 
"When I think on John Hrghlandmaii 
Sing, hey, &c. 

RECITATIVO. 

A pigmy scraper, wi' his fiddle, 

Wha us'd at trysts and fairs to driddle, 

Her strappan limb and gausy middle, 

He reach' d na higher. 
Had hol'd his heartie like a riddle, 

An' blawn't on fire. 

Wi' hand on hainch, an' upward e'e, 
He croon'd his gamut, one, two, three, 
Then in an Arioso key, 

The wee Apollo 
Set off wi' Allegretto glee 

His giga solo. 

AIR. 

Tune — " Whistle o'er the lave o'/." 

Let me ryke up to dight that tear, 
And go wi' me and be my dear, 
And then your every care and fear 
May whistle owre the lave o't. 



T am a fiddler to my trade, 
An' a' the tunes that e'er I play'd, 
The sweetest still to wife or maid, 
Was whistle owre the lave o't. 

At kirns and weddings we'se be there, 
And ! sae nicely's we will fare ; 
We'll bouse about till Daddie Care 
Sings whistle owre the lave o't. 

I am, &c. 

Sae merrily the banes we'll pyke, 

And sun oursells about the dyke, 

And at our leisure, when ye like, 

We'll whistle owre the lave o't. 

I am, &c. 

But bless me wi' your heav'n o' charms, 
And while I kittle hair on thairms, 
Hunger, cauld, and a' sic harms, 
May whistle owre the lave o't. 

I am, &c. 



RECITATIVO. 

Her charms had struck a sturdy caird, 

As weel as poor gut-scraper ; 
He taks the fiddler by the beard, 

And draws a roosty rapier — 
He swooi oy a' was swearing worth, 

To speot him like a pliver, 
Unless he wad from that time forth 

Rolinoui.sh her for ever- 



Wi' ghastly e'e, poor tweedle«<letf 

Upon his hunkers bended, 
And pray'd for grace wi' ruefu' fa^e, 

And sae the quarrel ended. 
But tho' his little heart did grieve 

When round the tinkler prest her. 
He feign' d to snirtle in his sleeve, 

When thus the caird address'd her 5 



Tune — " Clout the Caudron" 

My bonny lass, I work in brass, 

A tinkler is my station : 
I've travell'd round all Christian ground 

In this my occupation : 
I've taen the gold, an' been enrolled 

In many a noble squadron : 
But vain they search' d, when off I march'd 

To go and clout the caudron. 

I've taen the gold, isv. 

Despise that shrimp, that wither'd imp, 

Wi' a' his noise and caprin, 
And tak a share wi' those that bear 

The budget and the apron. 
And by that stoup, my faith and houp, 

An' by that dear Kilbaigie, 1 
If e'er ye want, or meet wi scant, 

May I ne'er weet my craigie. 

An' by that stcup, &0. 

RECITATIVO. 

The caird prevail' d — th' unblushing fair 

In his embraces sunk, 
Partly wi' love o'ercome sae sair, 

An' partly she was drunk. 
Sir Violino, with an air 

That show'd a man of spunk, 
Wish'd unison between the pair, 

An' made the bottle clunk 

To their health that night. 

But urchin Cupid shot a shaft, 

That play'd a dame a shavie, 
A sailor rak'd her fore and aft, 

Behint the chicken cavie. 
Her lord, a wight 0' Homer's craft, 

Tho' limping wi' the spavie, 
He hirpl'd up, and lap like daft, 

And shor'd them Dainty Davie 

O boot that nigbt. 

He was a care-defying blade 

As ever Bacchus listed, 
Tho' Fortune sair upon him laid, 

His heart she ever miss'd it. 
He had nae wish but — to be glad, 

Nor want but — when he thirsted ; 
He hated nought but — to be sad, 

And thus the Muse suggested 

His sang that night. 



\ p«rnUw 901 1 of whi=!:t-v. 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



IS 



Tune — " For a' that, an a' that.' 

I am a hard of no regard, 
Wi' gentle folks, an' a' that : 

But Homer-like, the glowran byke, 
Frae town to town I draw that. 



For a' that, an' a' that, 

An' twice as muckle's a' that ; 
I've lost but ane, I've twa behin', 

I've wife eneugh for a' that. 



I never drank the Muses' stank, 

Castalia's burn, an' a' that ; 
But there it streams, and richly reams, 

My Helicon I ca' that. 

For a' that, &c. 

Great love I bear to a' the fair, 
Their humble slave, an' a' that ; 

But lordly will, I hold it still 
A mortal sin to thraw that. 

For a' that, &c. 

In raptures sweet, this hour we meet, 
Wi' mutual love, an a' that : 

But for how lang the flie may stang, 
Let inclination law that. 

For a' that, &c. 

Their tricks and craft have put me daft, 
They've ta'en me in, and a' that ; 

But clear your decks, and here's the sex \ 
I like the jads for a' that. 



For a' that, an' a' that, 

An' twice as muckle's a' that ; 
My dearest bluid, to do them guid, 

They're welcome till't for a' that. 

RECITATIVO. 

So sung the bard — and Nansie's wa's 
Shook with a thunder of applause, 
Re-echo' d from each mouth : 
They toom'd their pocks, an' pawn'd their 

duds, 
They scarcely left to co'er their fuds, 

To quench their lowan drouth. 
Then owre again, the jovial thrang, 

The poet did request, 
To loose his pack an' wale a sang, 
A ballad o' the best ; 
He rising, rejoicing, 

Between his twa Deborahs 
Looks round him, an' found them 
Impatient for the chorus. 



Tune — w Jolly Mortals, fill your Glasses" 
See ! the smoking bowl before us, 

Mark our jovial ragged ring ! 
Round and round take up the chorus 

And in raptures let us sing. 

CHORUS. 

A fig for those by law protected ! 

Liberty's a glorious feast ! 
Courts for cowards were erected, 

Churches built to please the priest, 

"What is title ? what is treasure ? 

What is reputation's care ? 
If we lead a life of pleasure, 

'Tis no matter how or where ! 
A fig, &c. 

With the ready trick and fable, 
Round we wander all the day ; 

And at night, in barn or stable, 
Hug our doxies on the hay. 
A fig, &c. 

Does the train-attended carriage 
Through the country lighter rove ? 

Does the sober bed of marriage 
Witness brighter scenes of love ? 
A fig, &c. 

Life is all a variorum, 
We regard not how it goes ; 

Let them cant about decorum 
Who have characters to lose. 
A fig, &c. 

Here's to budgets, bags, and wallets ! 

Here's to all the wandering train - 
Here's our ragged brats and callets J 

One and all cry out — Amen 1 

A fig for those by law protected ! 

Liberty's a glorious feast I 
Courts for cowards were erected, 

Churches built to please the priest. 



XV. 

A TRUE STORY. 

[John Wilson, raised to the unwelcome elevation of hero to tnis 
poem, was, at the time of its composition, schoolmaster in Tarbolton: 
he was, it is said, a fair scholar, and a very worthy man, but vain of 
his knowledge in medicine— so vain, that he advertised his merits, 
and offered advice gratis. It was his misfortune to encounter Burns at 
a mason meeting, who, provoked by a long and pedantic speech, from 
the Dominie, exclaimed, the future lampoon dawning upon him, " Sit 
down, Dr. Hornbook." On his way home, the poet seated himself on 
the ledge of a bridge, composed 1 Jie poem, and overcome with poesip 
and drink, fell asleep, and did not awaken till the sun was shining 
over Galston Moors. Wilson went afterwards to Glasgow, em- 
barked in mercantile and matrimonial speculations, and prospered; 
and is still prospering.] 

Some books are lies frae end to end, 
And some great lies were never penn'd ? 



u 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



Ev'n ministers, they ha'e been kenn'd, 
In holy rapture, 

A rousing wind, at times, to vend; 

And nail't wi' Scripture. 

But this that I am gaun to tell, 
Which lately on a night befel, 
Is just as true's the Deil's in h-11 

Or Dublin city : 
That e'er he nearer comes oursel 

'S a muckle pity. 

The Clachan yill had made me canty, 

I was na fou, but just had plenty ; 

I stacker'd whyles, but yet took tent ay 

To free the ditches ; 
An' hillocks, stanes, and bushes, kenn'd ay 

Frae ghaists an' witches. 

The rising moon began to glow'r 
The distant Cumnock hills out-owre : 
To count her horns, wi' a' my pow'r, 

I set mysel ; 
But whether she had three or four, 

I cou'dna' telL 

I was come round about the hill, 
And todlin down on Willie's mill, 
Setting my staff wi' a' my skill, 

To keep me sicker ; 
Tho' leeward whyles, against my will, 

I took a bicker. 

I there wi' something did forgather, 

That put me in an eerie swither ; 

An awfu' scythe, out-owre ae shouther, 

Clear-dangling, hang ; 
A three-taed leister on the ither 

Lay, large an' lang. 

Its stature seem'd lang Scotch ells twa, 
The queerest shape that e'er I saw, 
For fient a wame it had ava ; 

And then, its shanks, 
They were as thin, as sharp an' sma' 

As cheeks o' branks. 

" Guid-een," quo' I ; " Friend ! hae ye been 

ma win, 
When ither folk are busy sawin ?" 
It seem'd to mak a kind o' stan', 

But naething spak ; 
At length, says I, " Friend, whare ye gaun, 

Will ye go back ?" 

It spak right howe, — "My name is Death, 
But be na' fley'd." — Quoth I, " Guid faith, 
Ye're may be come to stap my breath ; 

But tent me billie ; 
I red ye weel, take care o' skaith, 

See, there's a gully !" 

" Guidman," quo' he, " put up your whittle, 
I'm no design' d to try its mettle; 
But if I did, I wad be kittle 

To be mislear'd, 
I wad na mind it, no, that spittle 

Out-owre my beard." 



" Weel, weel !" says I, " a bargain be't : 
Come, gies your hand, an' sae we're gree't 
We'll ease our shanks an' tak a seat, 

Come, gies your news 1 
This while ye hae been mony a gate 

At mony a house. 

a Ay, ay !" quo' he, an' shook his head, 
" It's e'en a lang, lang time indeed 
Sin' I began to nick the thread, 

An' choke the breath ? 
Folk maun do something for their bread, 

An' sae maun Death. 






" Sax thousand years are near hand fled 

Sin' I was to the hutching bred, 

An' mony a scheme in vain's been laid, 

To stap or scar me 
Till ane Hornbook's ta'en up the trade, 

An' faith, he'll waur me, 

" Ye ken Jock Hornbook i' the Clachan, 
Deil mak his king's-hood in a spleuchan ! 
He's grown sae well acquaint wi' Buchan ' 

An' ither chaps, 
The weans haud out their fingers laugkin 

And pouk my hips. 

" See, here's a scythe, and there's a dart, 
They hae piere'd mony a gallant heart ; 
But Doctor Hornbook, wi' his art 

And cursed skill, 
Has made them baith no worth a f — t, 

Damn'd haet they'll kill, 

" 'Twas but yestreeen, nae farther gaen, 

I threw a noble throw at ane ; 

Wi' less, I'm sure, I've hundreds slain ; 

But-deil-ma-care, 
It just play'd diri on the bane, 

But did nae mair. 

u Hornbook was by, wi' ready art, 
And had sae fortified the part, 
That when I looked to my dart, 

It was sae blunt, 
Fient haet o't wad hae piere'd the heart 

Of a kail-runt. 

' ( I drew my scythe in sic a fury, 
I nearhand cowpit wi' my hurry, 
But yet the bauld Apothecary 

Withstood the shock 
I might as weel hae tried a quarry 

O' hard whin rock. 

" Ev'n them he canna get attended, 
Although their face he ne'er had kend it, 
Just sh— in a kail-blade, and send it, 

As soon he smellst, 
Baith their disease, and what will mend it, 

At once he tells't. 






BilciviIi's DoiBfiKiRC MttlJcwe 




u jjj g m s 








- - - 


£. 



tj ■-_• 1 



24 £ 






OF ROIJEUT BURNS. 



lo 






'* And then a' doctor's saws and whittles, 
Of a' dimensions, shapes, an' mettles, 
A' kinds o' boxes, mugs, an' bottles, 

He's sure to hae ; 
Their Latin names as fast he rattles 

As A B C. 

" Calces o' fossils, earths, and trees ; 
True sal-marinum o' the seas ; 
The farina of beans and pease, 

He has't in plenty ; 
Aqua-fontis, what you please, 

He can content ye. 

" Forbye some new, uncommon weapons, 

Urinus spiritus of capons ; 

Or mite-horn shavings, filings, scrapings, 

Distill'd per se ; 
Sal-alkali o' midge-tail clippings, 

And mony mae." 

" Waes me for Johnny (xed's-Hole 1 now," 
Quo' I, " If that thae news be true ! 
His braw calf- ward whare gowans grew, 

Sae white and bonie, 
Nae doubt they'll rive it wi' the plew ; 

They'll ruin Jolmie !" 

The creature grain'd an eldritch laugh, 
And says, " Ye need na yoke the pleugh, 
Kirkyards will soon be till'd eneugh, 

Tak ye nae fear ; 
They'll a' be trench'd wi' mony a sheugh 

In twa-three year. 

" Whare I kill'd ane, a fair strae death, 
By loss o' blood or want of breath, 
This night I'm free to tak my aith, 

That Hornbook's skill 
Has clad a score i' their last claith, 

By drap an' pill. 

" An honest wabster to his trade, 

Whase wife's twa nieves were scarce weel bred, 

Gat tippence-worth to mend her head, 

When it was sair ; 
The wife slade cannie to her bed, 

But ne'er spak mair. 

" A countra laird had ta'en the batts, 
Or some curmurring in his guts, 
His only son for Hornbook sets, 

An' pays him well. 
The lad, for twa guid gimmer-pets, 

Was laird himsel. 

" A bonnie lass, ye kend her name, 

Some ill-brewn drink had hov'd her wame ; 

She trusts hersel, to hide the shame, 

In Hornbook's care ; 
Horn sent her aff to her lang hame, 

To hide it there. 



I Th.E ffriiTi -dlg-ger. 



" That's just a swatch o' Hornbook's way ; 
Thus goes he on from day to day, 
Thus does he poison, kill, an' slay, 

An's weel paid for't ; 
Yet stops me o' my lawfu' prey, 

Wi' his d-mn'd dirt : 

" But, hark ! I'll tell you of a plot, 
Though dinna ye be speaking o't ; 
I'll nail the self-conceited sot, 

As dead's a herrin': 
Niest time we meet, I'll wad a groat, 

He gets his fairin' ! " 

But just as he began to tell, 

The auld kirk-hammer strak' the bell 

Some wee short hour ayont the twal, 

Which rais'd us baith: 
I took the way that pleas' d myseP, 

And sae did Death, 



XVI. 

OR, 

THE HOLY TULZIE. 

[The actors in this indecent drama were Moodie, minister of Rlo 
cartoun, and Russell, helper to the minister of Kilmarnock: though 
apostles of the " Old Light," they forgot their brotherhood in cbc 
vehemence of controversy, and went, it is said, to blows. " This 
poem," says Burns, " with a certain description of the clergy as well 
as laity, met with a roar of applause."] 

a' ye pious godly flocks, 
Weel fed on pastures orthodox, 
Wha now will keep you frae the fox, 

Or worrying tykes, 
Or wha will tent the waifs and crocks, 

About the dykes ? 

The twa best herds in a' the wast, 
That e'er ga'e gospel horn a blast, 
These five and twenty simmers past, 

! dool to tell, 
Ha'e had a bitter black out-cast 

Atween themsel. 

0, Moodie, man, and wordy Russell, 
How could you raise so vile a bustle, 
Ye'll see how New-Light herds will whistlft 

And think it fine : 
The Lord's cause ne'er got sic a twistle 

Sin' I ha'e min'. 

O, sirs ! whae'er wad ha'e expeckit 

Your duty ye wad sae negleckit, 

Ye wha were ne'er by lairds respeckit, 

To wear the plaid, 
But by the brutes themselves eleckit, 

To be their guide. 

What flock wi' Hoodie' s flock could rank, 
Sae hale and hearty every shank, 



16 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



Nae poison'd sour Arminian stank, 

He let them taste v 

Frae Calvin's well, ay clear they drank, — 
O' sic a feast ! 

The thummart, wil'-cat, brock, and tod, 
Weel kend his voice thro' a' the wood, 
He smelt their ilka hole and road, 

Baith out and in, 
And weel he lik'd to shed their bluid, 

And sell their skin. 

What herd like Russell tell'd his tale, 
His voice was heard thro' muir and dale, 
He kend the Lord's sheep, ilka tail, 

O'er a' the height, 
And saw gin they were sick or hale, 

At the first sight. 

He fine a mangy sheep could scrub, 

Or nobly fling the gospel club, 

And New-Light herds could nicely drub, 

Or pay their skin ; 
Could shake them o'er the burning dub, 

Or heave them in. 

Sic twa — O ! do I live to see't, 
Sic famous twa should disagreet, 
An' names, like villain, hypocrite, 

Ilk ither gi'en, 
Wliile New-Light herds, wi' laughin' spite, 

Say neither' s liein' I 

An' ye wha tent the gospel fauld, 
There's Duncan, deep, and Peebles, shaul, 
But chiefly thou, apostle Auld, 

We trust in thee, 
That thou wilt work them, hot and cauld, 

Till they agree. 

Consider, Sirs, how we're beset ; 
There's scarce a new herd that we get 
But comes frae 'mang that cursed set 

I winna name ; 
I hope frae heav'n to see them yet 

In fiery flame. 

Dalrymple has been lang our fae, 
M'Gill has wrought us meikle wae, 
And that curs'd rascal call'd M'Quhae, 

And baith the Shaws, 
That aft ha'e made us black and blae, 

Wi' vengefu' paws. 

Auld Wodrow lang has hatch'd mischief, 
We thought ay death wad bring relief, 
But he has gotten, to our grief, 

Ane to succeed him, 
A chield wha'll soundly buff our beef; 

I meikle dread him. 

And mony a ane that I could tell, 
Wha fain would openly rebel, 
Forbye turn-coats amang oursel, 

There's Smith for ane, 
I doubt he's but a grey-nick quill, 

An' that ye'll fin'. 



! a' ye flocks o'er a* the hills, 

By mosses, meadows, moors, and fells. 

Come, join your counsel and your skills 

To cow the lairds, 
And get the brutes the powers themsels 

To choose their herds \ 

Then Orthodoxy yet may prance, 
And Learning in a woody dance, 
And that fell cur ca'd Common Sense, 

That bites sae sair, 
Be banish'd o'er the sea to France : 

Let him bark there. 

Then Shaw's and Dalrymple's eloquence, 
M 'Gill's close nervous excellence, 
M'Quhae's pathetic manly sense, 

And guid M'Math, 
Wi' Smith, wha thro' the heart can glance, 

May a' pack aff. 



XVII. 

" And send the godly in a pet to pray." 

Pops 



[Of this sarcastic and too daring poem many copies in manuscript 
were circulated wliile the poet lived, but though not unknown or 
unfelt by Currie, it continued unpublished till printed by Stewart 
with the Jolly Beggars, in 1801. Holy Willie was a small farmer : 
leading elder to Auld, a name well known to all lovers of Bums; 
austere in speech, scrupulous in all outward observances, and, what is 
known by the name of a " professing Christian." He experiencedf 
however, a " sore fall ;" he permitted himself to be " filled fou," and 
in a moment when "self got in" made free, it is said, with the 
money of the poor of the parish. His name was William Fisher.] 

thou, wha in the heavens dost dwell, 
Wha, as it pleases best thyseP, 

Sends ane to heaven, and ten to hell, 
A' for thy glory, 

And no for ony gude or ill 

They've done afore thee I 

1 bless and praise thy matchless might, 
Whan thousands thou hast left in .night, 
That I am here afore thy sight, 

For gifts and grace, 
A burnin' and a shinin' light 

To a' this place. 

What was I, or my generation, 
That I should get sic exaltation, 
I wha deserve sic just damnation, 

For broken laws. 
Five thousand years 'fore my creation, 

Thro' Adam's cause. 

When frae my mither's womb I fell, 
Thou might hae plunged me in hell, 
To gnash my gums, to weep and wail, 

In burnin' lake, 
Whar damned devils roar and yell, 

Chain'd to a stako 



OF ROBERT BURNS 



17 






Yet I am here a ebosen sample ; 

To show thy grace is great and ample ; 

I'm here a pillar in thy temple, 

Strong as a rock, 
A guide, a buckler, an example, 

To a' thy flock. 

But yet, Lord ! confess I must, 
At times I'm fash'd wi' fleshly lust ; 
And sometimes, too, wi' warldly trust, 

Vile self gets in ; 
But thou remembers we are dust, 

Defil'd in sin. 

O Lord ! yestreen thou kens, wi' Meg — 

Thy pardon I sincerely beg, 

O ! may't ne'er be a livin' plague 

To my dishonour, 
An' I'll ne'er lift a lawless leg 

Again upon bar. 

Besides, I farther maun allow, 

Wi' Lizzie's lass, three times I trow — ■ 

But Lord, that Friday I was fou, 

When I came near her. 
Or else, thou kens, thy servant true 

Wad ne'er hae steer'd h*jr. 

Maybe thou lets this fleshly thorn, 

Beset thy servant e'en and morn, 

Lest he owre high and proud should turn, 

'Cause he's sae gifted ; 
If sae, thy han' maun e'en be borne, 

Until thou lift it. 

Lord, bless thy chosen in this place, 
For here thou hast a chosen race : 
But God confound their stubborn face, 

And blast their name, 
Wha bring thy elders to disgrace 

And public shame. 

Lord, mind Gawn Hamilton's deserts, 
He drinks, and swears, and plays at carts, 
Yet has sae mony takin' arts, 

Wi' grit and sma , 
Frae God's ain priests the people's hearts 

He steals awa. 

An' whan we chasten'd him therefore, 
Thou kens how he bred sic a splore, 
As set the warld in a roar 

O' laughin' at us ; — 
Curse thou his basket and his store, 

Kail and potatoes. 

Lord, hear my earnest cry and pray'r, 

Against the presbyt'ry of Ayr ; 

Thy strong right hand, Lord, mak it bare 

Upo' their heads, 
Lord weigh it down, and dinna spare, 

For their misdeeds. 

O Lord my God, that glib-tongu'd Aiken. 
My very heart and saul are quakin*, 



I To think how we stood groan in', shakin', 
I And swat wi' dread, 

While Auld wi' hingin lips gaed sneakin'. 
And hung his head. 

Lord, in the day of vengeance try him, 
Lord, visit them wha did employ him, 
And pass not in thy mercy by 'em, 

Nor hear their pray'r ? 
But for thy people's sake destroy 'em, 

And dinna spare. 

But, Lord, remember me and mine, 
Wi' mercies temp'ral and divine, 
That I for gear and grace may shine, 

Excell'd by nane, 
And a' the glory shall be thine, 

Amen, Amen I 



XVIII. 
lEphapfc on p^olg WliUit. 



[We are informed by Richmond of Mauchiine, that when he was a 
eterk in Gavin Hamilton's office Burns came in one morning and 
sold, *' I have just composed a poem, John, and if you will write it I 
will repeat it." He repeated Holy Willie's Prayer and Epitaph 
Hamilton came in at the moment, and having read them with deligh J 
ran laughing with them in his hand to Robert Aiken. The end ot 
Holy Willie was other than godly : in one of his visits to Mauchiine, 
he drank more than was needful, fell into a ditch on his way hcrca, 
and was found dead in the morning.] 



Here Holy Willie's sair worn clay 

Taks up its last abode ; 
His saul has ta'en some other way, 

I fear the left-hand road. 

Stop ! there he is, as sure's a gun, 
Poor, silly body, see him ; 

Nae wonder he's as black's the grun, 
Observe wha's standing wi' him. 

Your brunstane devilship I see, 
Has got him there before ye ; 

But haud your nine-tail cat a wee, 
Till ance you've heard my story. 

Your pity I will not implore, 

For pity ye hae nane ; 
Justice, alas ! has gi'en him o'er, 

And mercy's day is gaen. 

But hear me, sir, deil as ye are, 
Look something to your credit j 

A coof like him wad stain your name. 
If it were kent ye did it. 



16 



THE POETICAL WOKKS 



XIX 

^flt Untentorg ; 



ANSWER TO A MANDATE B^ THE SURVEYOR 
OF THE TAXES. 

[Wc have heard of a poor play-actor who, by a humorous inven- 
tory of his effects, so moved the commissioners of the income tax, that 
they remitted all claim on him then and forever; we know not that 
this very humorous inventory of Burns had any such effect on Mr. 
Aiken, the surveyor of the taxes. It is dated "Mossgiel, February 
22nd, 1786," and is remarkable for wit and sprightliness, and for the 
information which it gives us of the poef s habits, household, and 
agricultural implements.] 



Sir, as your mandate did request, 
T send you here a faithfu' list, 
0' gudes an' gear, an' a' my graith, 
To which I'm clear to gi'e my aith. 

Imprimis, then, for carriage cattle, 
I have four brutes o' gallant mettle, 
As ever drew afore a pettle. 
My Ian' afore's 1 a gude auld has been, 
An' wight an' wilfu' a' his days been. 
My Ian ahin's 2 a weel gaun fillie, 
That aft has borne me hame frae Killie, 3 
An' your auld burro' mony a time, 
In days when riding was nae crime — 
But ance, whan in my wooing pride ; 
I like a blockhead boost to ride, 
The wilfu' creature sae I pat to, 
(L — d pardon a' my sins an' that too !) 
I play'd my fiUie sic a shavie, 
She's a' bedevil'd with the spavie. 
My fur ahin's 4 a wordy beast, 
As e'er in tug or tow was trac'd. 
The fourth's a Highland Donald hastie, 
A d — n'd red wud Kilburnie blastie ! 
Forbye a cowt o' cowt's the wale, 
As ever ran afore a tail. 
If he be spar'd to be a beast, 
He'll draw me fifteen pun' at least — 
Wheel carriages I ha'e but few, 
Three carts, an' twa are feckly new ; 
Ae auld wheelbarrow, niair for token, 
Ae leg an' baith the trains are broken ; 
I made a poker o' the spin'le, 
5 An' my auld mither brunt the trin'le. 

For men I've three mischievous boys, 
Run de'ils for rantin' an' for noise ; 
A gaudsman ane, a thrasher t'other. 
Wee Davock hauds the nowt in fother. 
I rule them as I ought, discreetly, 
An' aften labour them completely; 
An' ay on Sundays duly, nightly, 
I on the Questions targe them tightly ; 
Till, faith, wee Davock's turn'd sae gieg. 
Tho' scarcely langer than your leg, 
He'll screed you aff Effectual Calling, 
As fast as ony in the dwalling. 



» The fore-horse on the left-ban,! in the plough. 

8 The indmoston the left-hand in the plough. 

a KiJu^rnock. 

• The hindmost horse on the light-hand in the plough. 



I've nane in female servan' station, 
(Lord keep me ay frae a' temptation !) 
I ha'e nae wife — and that my bliss is, 
An' ye have laid na tax on misses ; 
An' then, if kirk folks dinna clutch me, 
I ken the devils darena touch me. 
Wi' weans I'm mair than weel contented, 
Heav'n sent me ane mae than I wanted. 
My sonsie smirking dear-bought Bess, 
She stares the daddy in her face, 
Enough of ought ye like but grace ; 
But her, my bonnie sweet wee lady, 
I've paid enough for her already, 
An' gin ye tax her or her mither, 
B' the L — d ! ye'seget them a'thegither. 

And now, remember, Mr. Aiken, 
Nae kind of licence out I'm takin' ; 
Frae this time forth, I do declare 
I'se ne'er ride horse nor hizzie mair ; 
Thro' dirt and dub for life I'll paidle, . 
Ere I sae dear pay for a saddle ; 
My travel a' on foot I'll shank it, 
I've sturdy bearers, Gude be thankit. 
The kirk and you may tak' you that, 
It puts but little in your pat ; 
Sae dinna put me in your buke, 
Nor for my ten white shillings luke. 

This list wi' my ain hand I wrote it, 
The day and date as under noted ; 
Then know all ye whom it concerns, 
Subscripsi huic Robert Burks. 



XX 



A mask that like the gorget show'd, 

Dye-varying on the pigeon ; 
And for a mantle large and broad, 

He wrapt him in Religion. 

Hypocrisy a-la-modb 



[The scene of this fine poem is the churchyard of Mauchline, and 
the subject handled so cleverly and sharply is the laxity of manners 
visible in matters so solemn and terrible as the administration of the 
sacrament. "This wp„s indeed," says Lockhart, "an extraordinary 
performance: no partizan of any sect could whisper that malice had 
formed its principal inspiration, or that its chief attraction lay in ti;e 
boldness with which individuals, entitled and accustomed to respect, 
were held up to ridicule: it was acknowledged, amidst the sternest 
mutterings of wrath, that national manners were once more in the 
hands of a national poet." " It is no doubt," says Hogg, " a reckless 
piece cf satire- but it is a clever one, and must have cut to tho bone. 
Hut much as I admire the poem 1 must regret that it is paitly bor« 
rowed from Fergusson."] 



Upon a simmer Sunday morn, 
When Nature's face is fair, 

I walked forth to view the corn, 
An' snuff the caller air. 



1 





- 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 









The rising sun owre Galston muirs, 
Wi' glorious light was glintin' ; 

The hares were hirplin down the furs. 
The lav'rocks they were chantin' 

Fu' sweet tliat Jay. 

As lightsomely I glowr'd abroad, 

To see a scene sae gay, 
Three hizzies, early at the road, 

Cam skelpin up the way ; 
Twa had manteeles o' dolefu' black, 

But ane wi' lyart lining ; 
Tne third, that gaed a-wee a-back, 

Was in the fashion shining, 

Fu' gay that day. 

The twa appear' d like sisters twin, 

In feature, form, an' claes ; 
Their visage wither'd, lang, an' thin, 
" An' sour as ony slaes : 
The third cam up, hap-step-an'-lowp, 

As light as ony lambie, 
An' wi' a curchie low did stoop, 
As soon as e'er she saw me, 

Fu' kind that day. 

Wi' bonnet aff, quoth I, " Sweet lass, 

I think ye seem to ken me ; 
I'm sure I've seen that bonnie face, 

But yet I canna name ye." 
Quo' she, an' laughin' as she spak, 

An' taks me by the hands, 
"Ye, for my sake, hae gi'en the feck, 

Of a' the ten commands 

A screed some day. 

" My name is Fun — your cronie dear, 

The nearest friend ye hae ; 
An" this is Superstition here, 

An* that's Hypocrisy. 
I'm gaun to Mauchline holy fair, 

To spend an hour in damn : 
Gin ye' 11 go there, yon runkl'd pair, 

We will get famous laughin' 

At them this day." 

Quoth I, "With a' my heart, I'll do't ; 

I'll get my Sunday's sark on, 
An' meet you on the holy spot ; 

Faith we'se hae fine remarkin' !" 
Then I gaed hame at crowdie-time 

An' soon I made me ready; 
For roads were clad, frae side to side, 

Wi monie a wearie body, 

In droves that day 

IT ere farmers gash, in ridin' graith 

Gaed hoddin by their cottars ; 
There, swaukies young, in braw braid-claith, 

Are springin' o'er the gutters. 
The lasses, skelpin barefit, thrang, 

In silks an' scarlets glitter ; 
Wi" sweet-milk cheese, in monie a whang, 

An' farls bak'd wi' butter, 

Fu" crump that da v. 



When by the plate we set our nose, 

Weel heaped up wi' ha'pence, 
A greedy glowr Black Bonnet throws, 

An' we maun draw our tippence. 
Then in we go to see the show, 

On ev'ry side they'r gath'rin', 
Some carrying dails, some chairs an' stools 

An' some are busy blethrin' 

Bight loud that day. 

Here stands a shed to fend the show'rs, 

An' screen our countra gentry, 
There, racer Jess, and twa-three wh-res. 

Are blinkin' at the entry. 
Here sits a raw of tittlin' jades, 

Wi' heaving breast and bare neck. 
An' there a batch o' wabster lads, 

Blackguarding frae Kilmarnock 
For fun this day. 

Here some are thinkin' on their sins. 

An' some upo' their claes ; 
Ane curses feet that fyl'd his shins, 

Anither sighs an' prays : 
On this hand sits a chosen swatch, 

Wi' screw' d up grace-proud faces < 
On that a set o' chaps at watch, 

Thrang winkin' on the lasses 

To chairs that day. 

O happy is that man an' blest ! 

Nae wonder that it pride him ! 
Wha's ain dear lass that he likes best, 

Comes clinkin' down beside him ; 
Wi' arm repos'd on the chair back, 

He sweetly does compose him ; 
Which, by degrees, slips round her necky 

An's loof upon her bosom, 

Unkenn'd that day. 

Nov/ a' the congregation o'er 

Is silent expectation : 
For Moodie speels the holy dooi, 

Wi' tidings o' damnation. 
Should Hornie, as in ancient days, 

'Mang sons o' God present him, 
The vera sight o' Moodie' s face, 

To's ain het hame had sent him 
Wi' fright that day. 

Hear how he clears the points o' faitb 

Wi' rattlin an' thumpin' ! 
Now meekly calm, now wild in wrath. 

He's stampin an' he's jumpiu' ! 
His lengthen' d chin, his turn'd-up snout 

His eldritch squeel and gestures, 
Oh, how they fire the heart devout, 

Like cantharidian plasters. 
On sic a day. 

But, hark ! the tent has chang'd its voice 
There's peace an' rest nae langer: 

For a' the real judges rise. 
They canna sit for anger 



•20 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



Smith opens out his cauld harangues, 

On practice and on morals ; 
A n' afT the godly pour in thrangs, 

To gie the jars an" barrels 

A lift that day. 

What signifies his barren shine, 

Of moral pow'rs and reason ? 
His English style, an' gestures fine, 

Are a' clean out o' season. 
Like Socrates or Antonine, 

Or some auld pagan heathen, 
The moral man he does define, 

But ne'er a word o' faith in 

That's right that day. 

In guid time comes an antidote 

Against sic poison' d nostrum; 
For Peebles, frae the water-fit, 

Ascends the holy rostrum : 
See, up he's got the word o' God, 

An' meek an' mim has view'd it, 
While Common-Sense has ta'en the road, 

An' aff, an' up the Cowgate, 1 

Fast, fast, that day. 

Wee Miller, neist the guard relieves, 

An' orthodoxy raibles, 
Tho' in his heart he weel believes, 

An' thinks it auld wives' fables : 
But, faith ! the birkie wants a manse, 

So, cannily he hums them ; 
Altho' his carnal wit an' sense 

Like hamins-wise o'ercomes him 

At times that day. 

Now but an' ben, the Change-house fills, 

Wi' yill-caup commentators : 
Here's crying out for bakes and gills, 

An' there the pint stowp clatters ; 
While thick an' thrang, an' loud an' lang, 

Vi i 1 logic, an' wi' scripture, 
They raise a din, that, in the end, 

Is like to breed a rupture 

O' wrath that day. 

Leeze me on drink ! it gies us mair 

Than either school or college : 
It kindles wit, it wauken's lair, 

It pangs us fou o' knowledge. 
Be't whisky gill, or penny wheep, 

Or ony stronger potion, 
It never fails, on drinking deep, 

To kittle up our notion 

By night or day. 

The lads an' lasses, blythely bent 

To mind baith saul an' body, 
Sit round the table, weel content, 

An' steer about the toddy. 
On this ane's dress, an' that ane's leuk, 

They're making observations : 

1 A street so called, which faces th? tent in Mauchlmc. 



While some are cozie i' the neuk, 
An' formin' assignations 

To meet some day. 

But now the Lord's ain trumpet touts, 

Till a' the hills are rairin', 
An' echoes back return the shouts : 

Black Russell is na' spairin' : 
His piercing words, like Highlan' swords, 

Divide the joints an marrow ; 
His talk o' Hell, whare devils dwell, 

Our vera sauls does harrow 1 

Wi' fright that day. 

A vast, unbottom'd, boundless pit, 

Fill'd fou o' lowin' brunstane, 
Wha's ragin flame, an' scorchin' heat, 

Wad melt the hardest whun-stane ! 
The half asleep start up wi' fear, 

An' think they hear it roarin', 
When presently it does appear, 

'Twas but some neebor snorin' 

Asleep that day. 

'Twad be owre lang a tale to tell 

How monie stories past, 
An' how they crowded to the yill, 

When they were a' dismist : 
How drink gaed round, in cogs an' caups, 

Amang the furms an' benches : 
An' cheese an' bread, frae women's laps, 

Was dealt about in lunches, 

An' dawds that day. 

In comes a gaucie, gash guid wife, 

An' sits down by the fire, 
Syne draws her kebbuck an' her knife, 

The lasses they are shyer. 
The auld guidmen, about the grace, 

Frae side to side they bother, 
Till some ane by his bonnet lays, 

An' gi'es them't like a tether, 

Fu' lang that day. 

Waesucks ! for him that gets nae lass, 

Or lasses that hae naething ; 
Sma' need has he to say a grace, 

Or melvie his braw claithing ! 
O wives be mindfu', ance yoursel 

How bonnie lads ye wanted, 
An' dinna, for a kebbuck-heel, 

Let lasses be affronted 

On sic a day ! 

Now Clinkumbell, wi' rattlin tow, 

Begins to jow an' croon ; 
Some swagger ham e, the best they dow, 

Some wait the afternoon. 
At slaps the bilUes halt a blink. 

Till lasses strip their shoon : 
Wi' faith an' hope, an' love an' drink, 

They're a' in famous tune 

For crack that day. 

' Shaksreare'h Hamtae. 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



21 



How monie hearts this day converts 

O' sinners and o' lasses! 
Their hearts o' stane, gin night, are gane, 

As saft as ony tiesh is. 
There's some are fou o' love divine ; 

There's some are fou o' brandy; 
An 1 monie johs that day begin 

May end in houghmagandie 

Some ither day. 



XXI. 

tEfie (©ruination. 

'« Forseuse they little owe to frugal heav'n— 
To please the mob they hide the little giv'n 



(This sarcastic sally was written on the admission of Mr. 
Mack inlay, as one of the ministers to the Laigh, or parochial Kirk of 
Kilmarnock, on 'he 6'tli of April, 1786. That reverend person 
wsa an Auld Light professor, and his ordination incensed all the 
New Lights, hence the hitter levity of the poem. These dissensions 
have long since passed away : Mackinlay, a pious and kind-hearted 
sincere man lived down all the personalities of the satire, and though 
unwelcome at fi rst, he soon learned to regard them only as a proof of 
the powers of the poet.] 



Kilmarnock wabsters fidge an' claw, 

An' pour your creeshie nations ; 
An' ye wha leather rax an' draw 

Of a' denominations, 
Swith to the Laigh Kirk, ane an' a', 

An' there tak up your stations ; 
Then aff to Begbie's in a raw, 

An' pour divine libations 

For joy this day. 

Curst Common-sense, that imp o* hell, 

Cam in wi' Maggie Lauder ; l 
But Oliphant aft made her yell, 

An' Russell sair misca'd her ; 
This day Mackinlay taks the flail, 

And he's the boy will blaud her ! 
He'll clap a shangan on her tail, 

An' set the bairns to daud her 

Wi' dirt this day. 

Mak haste an' turn king David owre, 

An' lilt wi' holy clangor ; 
0' double verse come gie us four, 

An' skirl up the Bangor : 
This day the Kirk kicks up a stoure, 

Nae mair the knaves shall wrang her, 
For Heresy is in her pow'r, 

And gloriously she'll whang her 

Wi' pith this day. 



Come, let a proper text be read, 

An' touch it aff wi' vigour, 
How graceless Ham 1 leugh at his dad, 

Which made Canaan a niger ; 
Or Phineas 2 drove the murdering blade 

Wi' wh-re-abhorring rigour ; 
Or Zipporah, 3 the scauldin' jad, 

Was like a bluidy tiger 

I' th' inn that day. 

There, try his mettle on the creed, 

And bind him down wi' caution, 
That stipend is a carnal weed 

He taks but for the fashion ; 
And gie him o'er the flock, to feed, 

And punish each transgression ; 
Especial, rams that cross the breed, 

Gie them sufficient threshin, 

Spare them nae day, 

Now, auld Kilmarnock, cock thy tail, 

And toss thy horns fu' canty ; 
Nae mair thoul't rowte out-owre the dalo, 

Because thy pasture's scanty ; 
For lapfu's large o' gospel kail 

Shall fill thy crib in plenty, 
An' runts o' grace the pick and wale. 

No gi'en by way o' dainty, 

But ilka day. 

Nae mair by Babel's streams we'll weep. 

To think upon our Zion ; 
And hing our fiddles up to sleep, 

Like baby-clouts a-dryin' : 
Come, screw the pegs, wi' tunefu' cheep, 

And o'er the tharims be tryin' ; 
Oh, rare ! to see our elbucks wh-eep, 

An' a' like lamb-tails flyin' 

Fu' fast this day I 

Lang Patronage, wi' rod o' aim, 

Has shor'd the Kirk's undoin', 
As lately Fen wick, sair forfairn, 

Has proven to its ruin : 
Our patron, honest man ! Glencairn, 

He saw mischief was brewinV 
And like a godly elect bairn 

He's wal'd us out a true ane, 

And sound this dny 

Now, Xtobinson, harangue nae mair. 

But steek your gab for ever : 
Or try the wicked town of Ayr, 

For there they'll think you clever ; 
Or, nae reflection on your lear, 

Ye may commence a shaver ; 
Or to the Netherton repair, 

And turn a carpet-weaver 

Aff-hand this day. 

Mutrie and you were just a match, 

We never had sic twa drones : 
Auld Hornie did the Laigh Kirk watch, 

Just like a winkin' baudrons : 



- Alluding to « scoffing hallad which was made on the adtnls- j 
aon of the late reverend &nd worthy Mr. Lindsay to the Laigh j 
Kirk. I 



22 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



And ay' he catch' d the tither wretch, 

To fry them in his caudrons ; 
But now his honour maun detach, 

Wi 1 a' his brimstone squadrons, 

Fast, fast this day 

See, see auld Orthodoxy's faes 

She's swingein through the city ; 
Hark, how the nine-tail' d cat she plays ! 

I vow its unco pretty : 
There, Learning, with his Greekish face, 

Grunts out some Latin ditty ; 
And Common Sense is gaun, she says, 

To mak to Jamie Beattie 

Her plaint this day. 

But there's Morality himsel', 

Embracing all opinions ; 
Hear, how he gies the tither yell, 

Between his twa companions ; 
See, how she peels the skin an' fell, 

As ane were peelin onions ! 
Now there — they're packed afF to hell, 

And banish' d our dominions, 

Henceforth this day. 

O, happy day ! rejoice, rejoice ! 

Come bouse about the porter ! 
Morality's demure decoys 

Shall here nae mair find quarter : 
Mackinlay, Russell, are the boys, 

That Heresy can torture : 
They'll gie her on a rape a hoyse, 

And cowe her measure shorter 

By th' head some day. 

Come, bring the tither mutchkin in, 

And here's for a conclusion, 
To every New Light 1 mother's son, 

From this time forth, Confusion : 
If mair they deave us wi' their din, 

Or Patronage intrusion, 
We'll light a spunk, and, ev'ry skin, 

We'll rin them aff in fusion 

Like oil, some day. 



XXIT. 
Stye (Salt 

TO THE REV. MR. JAMES STEVEN, 

On Iris text, Malachi, iv. 2.—" And ye shall go forth, and grow 

up as calves of the stall." 

[The laugh which this little poem raised against Steven was a 
loud one. Rums composed it during the sermon to which it relates 
and repeated it to Gavin Hamilton, with whom he happened on that 
day to dine. The Calf— for the name it seems stuck— came to Lon- 
don, where the younger brother of Hums heard him preach in Co- 
vent Garden Chapel, in 1790.] 

Right, Sir ! your text I'll prove it true, 

Though Heretics may laugh ; 
For instance ; there's yoursel' just now, 

God knows, an unco Calf ! 

i "New Light" is a cant phrase in the West of Scotland, for 
those religious opinions which Dr. Taylor of Norwich has defended 
i » strenuously; 



And should some patron be so kind. 

As bless you wi' a kirk, 
I doubt na, Sir, but then we'll find, 

Ye're still as great a Stirk. 

But, if the lover's raptur'd hour 

Shall ever be your lot, 
Forbid it, ev'ry heavenly power, 

You e'er should be a Stot ! 

Tho', when some kind, connubial deai, 

Your but-and-ben adorns, 
The like has been that you may wear 

A noble head of horns. 



And in your lug, most reverend James, 

To hear you roar and rowte, 
Few men o' sense will doubt your claims 

To rank amang the nowte. 

And when ye' re number' d wi' the dead, 

Below a grassy hillock, 
Wi' justice they may mark your head — 

" Here lies a famous Bullock !" 



XXIII. 

" Friendship ! mysterious cement of the soul ! 
Sweet'ner of life, and solder of society ! 
1 owe thee much ! " 



[The James Smith, to whom this epistle is addressed, was at that 
time a small shopkeeper in Mauchline, and the comrade or rather fol- 
lower of the poet in all his merry expeditions with " Yill caup com 
mentators." He was present in Posie Nansie's when the Jolly Beg- 
gars first dawned on the fancy of Burns : the comrades of the poet'-s 
heart were not generally very successful in life: Smith left Mauch- 
line, and established a calico-printing manufactory at Avon nea- 
Linlithgow, where his friend found him in all appearance prosperous 
in 1788 : but this was not to last ; he failed in his speculations and 
went to the West Indies, and died early. His wit was ready, and his 
manners lively and unaffected.] 



Dear Smith, the sleest, paukie thief, 
That e'er attempted stealth or rief, 
Ye surely hae some warlock-breef 

Owre human hearts ; 
For ne'er a bosom yet was prief 

Against your arts. 

For me, I swear by sun an' moon, 
And ev'ry star that blinks aboon, 
Ye've cost me twenty pair o' shoon 

Just gaun to see you ; 
And ev'ry ither pair that's done, 

Mair ta : en I'm wi' you. 

That auld capricious carlin, Nature, 
To mak amends for senmpit stature. 






OF KOBE LIT BURNS. 



23 



She's turn'd you aflf, a human creature 

On her first plan ; 

And in her freaks, on every feature 

She's wrote, the Man. 

Just now I've ta'en the fit o' rhyme, 
My barm ie noddle's working- prime, 
My fancy yerkit up sublime 

Wi' hasty summon : 
Hae ye a leisure-moment's time 

To hear what's comin' ? 

Some rhyme a neighbour's name to lash ; 
Some rhyme (vain thought !) for needfu' cash : 
Some rhyme to court the countra clash, 

An' raise a din ; 
For me, an aim I never fash ; 

I rhyme for fun. 

The star that rules my luckless lot, 

Has fated me the russet coat, 

An' damn'd my fortune to the groat ; 

But in requit, 
Has blest me with a random shot 

0' countra wit. 

This while my notion's ta'en a sklent, 
To try my fate in guid black prent ; 
But still the mair I'm that way bent, 

Something cries "Hoolie ! 
I red you, honest man, tak tent ! 

Ye'll shaw your folly. 

" There's ither poets much your betters, 
Far seen in Greek, deep men o' letters, 
Hae thought they had ensur'd their debtors, 

A' future ages : 
Now moths deform in shapeless tatters, 

Their unknown pages." 

Then farewell hopes o' laurel-boughs, 
To garland my poetic brows ! 
Henceforth I'll rove where busy ploughs 

Are whistling thrang 
An' teach the lanely heights an' howes 

My rustic sang. 

1*11 wander on, with tentless heed 
How never-halting moments speed, 
Till fate shall snap the brittle thread ; 

Then, all unknown, 
I'll lay me with th' inglorious dead, 

Forgot, and gone ! 

But why o' death begin a tale ? 

lust now we're living sound and hale, 

Then top and maintop crowd the sail, 

Heave care o'er side ! 
And large, before enjoyment's gale, 

Let's tak the tide. 

This life, sae far's I understand, 
Is a' enchanted fairy land, 



Where pleasure is the magic wand. 

That, wielded right, 

Maks hours like minutes, hand in hand, 

Dance by fu' light. 

The magic wand then let us wield ; 
For, ance that five-an' -forty's speel'd. 
See crazy, weary, joyless eild, 

Wi' wrinkl'd face. 
Comes hostin' hirplin' owre the field, 

Wi' creepin' pace. 

When ance life's day draws near the gloamm'. 
Then fareweel vacant careless roamin' ; 
An' fareweel cheerfu' tankards foamin*, 

An' social noise; 
An' fareweel dear, deluding woman ! 

The joy of joys ' 

O Life ! how pleasant in thy morning, 
Young Fancy's rays the hills adorning ! 
Cold-pausing Caution's lesson scorning, 

We frisk away, 
Like school-boys, at th' expected warning, 

To joy and play. 

We wander there, we wander here, 
We eye the rose upon the brier, 
Unmindful that the thorn is near, 

Among the leaves * 
And tlio' the puny wound appear, 

Short while it grieves. 

Some, lucky, find a flow'ry spot, 

For which they never toil' d nor swat ; 

They drink the sweet and eat the fat, 

But care or pain ; 
And, haply, eye the barren hut 

With high disdain. 

With steady aim some Fortune chase; 
Keen hope does ev'ry sinew brace ; 
Thro' fair, thro' foul, they urge the race, 

And seize the prey; 
Then cannie, in some cozie place, 

They close the day. 

And others, like your humble servan', 
Poor wights ! nae rules nor roads observin'; 
To right or left, eternal swervin', 

They zig-zag on ; 
'Till curst with age, obscure an' starvin', 

They aften groan. 

Alas ! what bitter toil an' straining — 
But truce with peevish, poor complaining ! 
Is fortune's fickle Luna waning ? 

E'en let her gang I 
Beneath what light she has remaining, 

Let's sing our sang. 

My pen I here fling to the door, 

And kneel, " Ye Pow'rs," and warm implore 



24 



THE POETICAL WOKKS 



*■* Tho' I should wander terra o'er, 

In all her climes, 

Grant me but this, I ask no more, 

Ay rowth o' rhymes. 

" Gie dreeping roasts to countra lairds, 
Till icicles hing frae their beards ; 
Gie fine braw claes to fine life-guards, 

And maids of honour ! 
And yill an' whisky gie to cairds, 

Until they sconner. 

" A title, Dempster merits it ; 

A garter gie to Willie Pitt ; 

Gie wealth to some be-ledger'd cit, 

In cent, per cent. 
But give me real, sterling wit, 

And I'm content. 

u While ye are pleas' d to keep me hale, 
I'll sit down o'er my scanty meal, 
Be't water-brose, or muslin-kail, 

Wi' cheerfu' face, 
As lang's the muses dinna fail 

To say the grace." 

An anxious e'e I never throws 
Behint my lug, or by my nose ; 
I jouk beneath misfortune's blows 

As weel's I may ; 
Sworn foe to sorrow, care, and prose, 

I rhyme away. 

ye douce folk, that live by rule, 
Grave, tideless-blooded, calm and cool, 
Compar'd wi' you — O fool ! fool ! fool ! 

How much unlike ! 
Your hearts are just a standing pool, 

Your lives, a dyke ! 

Nae hair-brain' d, sentimental traces, 
In your unlet ter'd nameless faces I 
In arioso trills and graces 

Ye never stray, 
Put gravissimo, solemn basses 

Ye hum away. 

Ye are sae grave, nae doubt ye're wise; 

Nae ferly tho' ye do despise 

The hairum-scarum, ram-stam beys, 

The rattling squad : 

1 see you upward cast your eyes — 

Ye ken the road — 

Whilst I — but I shall haud me there — 
"\\ i' you I'll scarce gang ony where — 
Then, Jamie, I shall say nae mair, 

But quat my sang 
Content wi' you to mak a pair, 

Whare'cr I gang. 



XXIV 
W)t Ttfizion. 

DtTAN TIRST. 1 



[The Vision and the Briggs cf Ayr, are said by Jeft'ey to be " tha 
only pieces by Burns which can be classed under the head of pare fic- 
tion:" but Tarn o' Shanter and twenty other of his compositions have 
an equal right to be classed with works of fiction. Trie edition cf 
this poem published at Kilmarnock, differs in some particulars from 
the edition which followed in Edinburgh. The maiden whose foos 
was so handsome as to match that of Ccila, was a Bess at first, but old 
affection triumphed, and Jean, for whom the honour was, from the 
first designed, regained her place. The robe of Coila, too, was ex- 
panded, so far indeed that she got more cloth than she could well 
carry.] 

The sun had clos'd the winter day, 
The curlers quat their roaring play, 
An' hunger'd maukin ta'en her way 

To kail-yards green, 
While faithless snaws ilk step betray 

Whare she has been. 

The thresher's weary flingin'-tree 
The lee-lang day had tired me ; 
And when the day had clos'd his e'e, 

Far i' the west, 
Ben i' the spence, right pensivelie, 

I gaed to rest. 

There, lanely, by the ingle-cheek, 
I sat and ey'd the spewing reek, 
That fill'd wi' hoast provoking smeek, 

The auld clay biggin's 
An' heard the restless rattons squeak 

About the riggm*. 

All in this mottie, misty clime, 
I backward mus'd on wastet time, 
How I had spent my youthfu' prime, 

An' done nae thing, 
But stringin' blethers up in rhyme, 

For fools to sing. 

Had I to guid advice but harkit, 
I might, by this, hae led a market, 
Or strutted in a bank an' clarkit 

My cash-account i 
While here, half-mad, half-fed, half-sarkit, 

Is a' th' amount. 

I started, mutt'ring, blockhead ! coof ! 
And heav'd on high my waukit loof, 
To swear by a' yon starry roof, 

Or some rash aith, 
That I, henceforth, would be rhyme-proof 

Till my last breath — 

When, click ! the string the snick did draw: 
And, jee ! the door gaed to the wa' ; 
An' by my ingle-lowe I saw, 

Now bleezin' bright, 
A tight outlandish hizzie, braw, 

Come full in sight. 



1 Dzcan, a term ot Ossian's for the different divisions of a digrexirf 
poem. See his " Catli-Loda," vol. lL of Macpberson'g translation. 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



25 



Ye need na doubt, I held my whisht ; 
The infant aith, half-form' d, was crusht; 
I glowr'd as eerie's I'd been dusht 

In some wild glen ; 
When sweet, like modest worth, she blusht, 

And stepped ben. 

Green, slender, leaf-clad holly-boughs 
Were twisted, gracefu' round her brows, 
I took her for some Scottish Muse, 

By that same token ; 
An' come to stop those reckless vows, 

Wou'd soon been broken. 



A " hair-brain' d, sentimental trace" 
Was strongly marked in her face ; 
A wildly-witty, rustic grace 

Shone full upon her ; 
Her eye, ev'n turn'd on empty space, 

Beam'd keen with honour. 

Down flow'd her robe, a tartan sheen, 
'Till half a leg was scrimply seen : 
And such a leg ! my bonnie Jean 

Could only peer it ; 
Sae straught, sae taper, tight and clean, 

Nane else came near it. 



Her mantle large, of greenish hue, 

My gazing wonder chiefly drew ; 

Deep lights and shades, bold-mingling, threw 

A lustre grand ; 
And seem'd to my astonish' d view, 

A well-known land. 

Here, rivers in the sea were lost ; 
There, mountains to the skies were tost : 
Here, tumbling billows mark'd the coast, 

With surging foam ; 
There, distant shone Art's lofty boast, 

The lord-ly dome. 

Hare, Doon pour'd down his far-fetch'd floods ; 
There, well-fed Irwine stately thuds : 
Auld hermit Ayr staw thro' his woods, 

On to the shore ; 
And many a lesser torrent scuds, 

With seeming roar 

Low, in a sandy valley spread, 

An ancient borough rear'd her head; 

Still, as in Scottish story read, 

She boasts a race, 
To ev'ry nobler virtue bred, 

And polish' d grace. 

By stately tow'r, or palace fair, 

Or ruins pendent in the air, 

Bold stems of heroes, here and there, 

I cotild discern ; 
Some fieem'd to muse, some seem'd to dare, 

With feature stern. 



My heart did glowing transport feel, 

To see a race 1 heroic wheei, 

And brandish round the deep-dy'd steel 

In sturdy blowfc.; 
While back-recoiling seem'd to reel 

Their suthron foes. 

His Country's Saviour, 2 mark him well ! 
Bold Richardton's 3 heroic swell; 
The chief on Sark 4 who glorious fell, 

In high command ; 
And He whom ruthless fates expel 

His native land. 

There, where a sceptr'd Pictish shade 5 
Stalk'd round his ashes lowly laid, 
I mark'd a martial race pourtray'd 

In colours strong ; 
Bold, soldier-featur'd, undismay'd 

They strode along . 

Thro' many a wild romantic grove, 6 
Near many a hermit-fancy' d cove, 
(Fit haunts for friendship or for love,) 

In musing mood, 
An aged judge, I saw him rove, 

Dispensing good. 

With deep-struck reverential awe 7 
The learned sire and son I saw, 
To Nature's God and Nature's law 

They gave their lore. 
This-, all its source and end to draw ; 

That, to adore. 

Brydone's brave ward 8 I well could spy, 
Beneath old Scotia's smiling eye ; 
Who call'd on Fame, low standing by, 

To hand him on, 
Where many a Patriot-name on high 

And hero shone. 



DUAN SECOND. 

With musing-deep, astonish'd stare, 
I vievv'd the heavenly-seeming fair ; 
A whisp ring throb did witness bear 

Of kindred sweet, 
When with an elder sister's air 

She did me greet. 

1 The Wallaces. 

2 Sir William Wallace. 

3 Adam Wallace, of Richardton. cousin to the immortal preserver 
of Scottish independence. 

4 Wallace, Laird of Lraigie, who was second in command undo" 
Douglas, Earl of Ormond, at the famous battle on the banks of Sartt, 
fought anno 1448. That glorious victory was principally owing to 
the judicious conduct and intrepid valour of the gallant Lain! or 
Craigie, who died of his wounds after the action. 

5 Coilus, king of the Picts, from whom the district of Kyle is 
said to take its name, lies buried, as tradition says, near tne ia- 
mily seat of the Montgomeries of Coils-field, where bis buri&l-ptace 
is still shown. 

6 Barskimming, the seat of the late lord Justke-CkirV (Sir 
Thomas Miller of Glenlee, afterwards President of th- Court o3 
Session.) 

7 Cauine, the seat of P ofessor Dugald Stewart. 
« Colonel FuUarton. 



2ff 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



a Ail hail I my own inspired Lard ! 
In me thy native Muse regard ! 
Nor longer mourn thy fate is hard, 

Thus poorly low ! 
I come to give thee such reward 

As we bestow. 



" Know, the great genius of this land 
Has many a light aerial band, 
Who, all beneath his high command, 

Harmoniously, 
As arts or arms they understand, 

Their labours ply. 

" They Scotia's race among them share ; 
Some fire the soldier on to dare ; 
Some rouse the patriot up to bare 

Corruption's heart. 
Some teach the bard, a darling care, 

The tuneful art. 

" 'Mong swelling floods of reeking gore, 
They, ardent, kindling spirits, pour ; 
Or 'mid the venal senate's roar, 

They, sightless, stand, 
To mend the honest patriot-lore, 

And grace the hand. 

'* And when the bard, or hoary sage, 
Charm or instruct the future age, 
They bind the wild, poetic rage 

In energy, 
Or point the inconclusive page 

Full on the eye. 

" Hence Fullarton, the brave and young ; 
Hence Dempster's zeal-inspired tongue ; 
Hence sweet harmonious Beattie sung 

His ' Minstrel' lays ; 
Or tore, with noble ardour stung, 

The sceptic's bays. 

" To lower orders are assign'd 
The humbler ranks of human-kind, 
The rustic bard, the lab'ring hind, 

The artisan ; 
All choose, as various they're inclin'd 

The various man. 

u When yellow waves the heavy grain, 
The threat 'ning storm some, strongly, rein ; 
Some teach to meliorate the plain, 

With tillage-skill ; 
And some instruct the shepherd-train, 

Blythe o'er the hill. 

" Some hint the lover's harmless wile ; 
Some grace the maiden's artless smile ; 
Some soothe the lab'rer's weary toil, 

For humble gains, 
And make his cottage-scenes beguile 

His cares and pains. 



" Some, bounded to a district-space, 
Explore at large man's infant race, 
To mark the embryotic trace 

Of rustic bard : 
And careful note each op'ning grace, 

A guide and guard, 

" Of these am I — Coila my name ; 
And this district as mine I claim, 
Where once the Campbells, chiefs of fame, 

Held ruling pow'r : 
I mark'd thy embryo-tuneful flame, 

Thy natal hour. 

" With future hope, I oft would gaze, 
Fond, on thy little early ways, 
Thy rudely caroll'd, chiming phrase, 

In uncouth rhymes, 
Fir'd at the simple, artless lays, 

Of other times. 

" I saw thee seek the sounding shore, 
Delighted with the dashing roar ; 
Or when the north his fleecy store 

Drove through the sky, 
I saw grim Nature's visage hoar 

Struck thy young eye. 

" Or when the deep green-mantled earth 
Warm cherish' d ev'ry flow'rets birth, 
And joy and music pouring forth 

In ev'ry grove, 
I saw thee eye the general mirth 

With boundless love 

" When ripen'd fields, and azure skies, 
Called forth the reaper's rustling noise, 
I saw thee leave their evening joys, 

And lonely stalk, 
To vent thy bosom's swelling rise 

In pensive walk. 

" When youthful love, warm-blushing, strong, 
Keen-shivering shot thy nerves along, 
Those accents, grateful to thy tongue, 

Th' adored Name 
I taught thee how to pour in song, 

To soothe thy flame. 

" I saw thy pulse's maddening play, 
Wild send thee pleasure's devious way, 
Misled by Fancy's meteor-ray, 

By passion driven ; 
But yet the light that led astray 

Was light from Heaven. 

" I taught thy manners-painting strains. 
The loves, the ways of simple swains, 
Till now, o'er all my wide domains 

Thy fame extends ; 
And some, the pride of Coila's plains. 

Become tliy frienda. 



OF ROBKRT BURNS. 



27 



15 Thou canst not learn, nor can I show, 
To paint with Thomson's landscape-glow ; 
Or wake the bosom-rnelting throe, 

"With Shenstone's art ; 
Or pour, with Gray, the moving now, 

Warm on the heart. 

*' Yet, all beneath the unrivall'd rose, 

The lowly daisy sweetly blows ; 

Tho' large the forest's monarch throws 

His army shade, 
Yet green the juicy hawthorn grows, 

Adown the glade. 

" Then never murmur nor repine ; 
Strive in thy humble sphere to shine ; 
And, trust me, not Potosi's mine, 

Nor king's regard, 
Can give a bliss o'ermatching thine, 

A rustic bard. 

" To give my counsels all in one, 
Thy tuneful flame still careful fan ; 
Preserve the dignity of man, 

With soul erect ; 
And trust, the universal plan 

Will all protect. 

" And wear thou this," — she solemn said, 
And bound the holly round my head : 
The nolish'd leaves and berries red, 

Did rustling play ; 
And like a passing thought, she fled 

In light away. 



XXV. 

'• Yes ! let the rich deride, the proud disdain, 
The simple pleasures of the lowly train ; 
To me more dear, congenial to my heart, 
One native charm, than all the gloss of art." 

Goldsmith 

['I iiis Popm contains a lively and striking picture of some of the 
superstitious observances of old Scotland : on Halloween the desire 
to look into futurity was once all but universal in the north ; and the 
ms an£ .spells which Burns describes, form bat a portion of those 
employed to enable the peasantry to have a peep up the dark vista of 
the future. The scene Is laid on the romantic shores of Ayr, at 
a farmer's fire-side, and the actors in the rustic drama are the whole 
household, including supernumerary reapers and bandsmen about to 
be discharged from the engagements of harvest. " I never can help 
regarding this/' says James Hogg, " as rather a trivial poem !"] 

Upon that night, when fairies light, 

On Cassilis Downans 2 dance, 
Or owre the lays, in splendid blaze, 

On sprightly coursers prance ; 



1 Is thought to be a night when witches, devils, and other inis- 
eliief-making beings are all abroad on their baneful midnight er- 
rands : particularly those aerial people, the Fairies, are said on that 
night to'hold a grand anniversary. 

8 Certain little, romantic, rocky green nills, in the neighbourhood 
of the suicient seat of th« Earls of Cassilis, 



Or for Colean the rout Is t?i\<n, 
Beneath the moon's pale beams j 

There, up the Cove, 1 to stray an' rove 
Amang the rocks an' streams 

To sport that night. 

Amang the bonnie winding banks 

Where Doon rins, wimplin', clear, 
Where Bruce 2 ance rul'd the martial ranka 

An' shook his Carrick spear, 
Some merry, friendly, countra folks, 

Together did convene, 
To burn their nits, an' pou their stocks, 

An' haud their Halloween 

Fu' blythe that night. 



The lasses feat, an' cleanly neat, 

Mair braw than when they're fine; 
Their faces blythe, fu' sweetly kythe, 

Hearts leal, an' warm, an' kin'; 
The lads sae trig, wi' wooer-babs, 

Weel knotted on their garten, 
Some unco blate, an' some wi' gabs, 

Gar lasses' hearts gang startin' 

Whiles fast at nipjht. 

Then, first and foremost, thro' the kail, 

Their stocks 3 maun a' be sought ance ; 
They steek their een, an' graip an' wale, 

For inuckle anes an' straught anes. 
Poor hav'rel Will feU aff the drift, 

An' wander'd through tbe bow-kail, 
An' pou't, for want o' better shift, 

A runt was like a sow-tail, 

Sae bow't that night. 

Then, straught or crooked, yird ov nane. 

They roar an' cry a' throu'ther ; 
The vera wee-things, todlin', rin 

Wi' stocks out-owre their shouther; 
An' gif the custoc's sweet or sour, 

Wi' joctelegs they taste them ; 
Syne coziely, aboon the door, 

Wi' cannie care, they've placed them 
To lie that night. 



1 A noted cavern near Colean-house, called the Cove of Colean 
which, as well as Cassilis Downans, is famed in country story toi 
being a favourite haunt of fairies. 

2 The famous family of that name, the ancestors ef Robert, tile 
great deliverer of his country, were Earis of Carrick. 

3 The first ceremony of Halloween is, pulling each a stock, ov 
plant of kail. They must go out, hand-in-hand, with eyes shut, 
and pull the first they meet with : its being big or little straight or 
crooked, is prophetic of the size and shape of the grand object of a!J 
their spells— the husband or wife. If any yird, or earth, stick to the 
root, that is tocher, or fortune ; and^ie taste of the custoc, that Li, 
the heart of the stem, is indicative of tbe natural temper and dispo- 
sition. Lastly, the stems, or, to give them their ordinary appella- 
tion, the runts, are placed somewhere above the head of the door : 
and the Christian names of 'he people whom chance brings into it, 
house, are, according to the priority of placing the runts, the nann - 
in question. 



28 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



Tli8 lasses staw frae' mang them a' 

To pou their stalks o' corn ; l 
But Rab slips out, an' jinks about, 

Behint the muckle thorn : 
He grippet Nelly hard an' fast ; 

Loud skirl' d a' the lasses ; 
But her tap-pickle maist was lost, 

When kiuttlin' in the fause-house 2 

Wi' him that night. 

The auld guidwife's weel hoordet nits s 

Are round an' round divided, 
An' monie lads' an' lasses' fates 

Are there that night decided % 
Some kindle, couthie, side by side, 

An' burn thegither trimly ; 
Some start awa wi' saucy pride, 

And jump out-owre the chimlie 

Fu' high that night. 

Jean slips in twa wi' tentie e'e ; 

Wha 'twas, she wadna tell ; 
But this is Jock, an' this is me, 

She says in to hersel' : 
He bleez'd owre her, an' she owre him, 

As they wad never mair part ; 
'Till, fuff ! he started up the lum, 

An' Jean had e'en a sair heart 

To see't that night. 

Poor Willie, wi' his bow-kail runt, 

Was brunt wi' primsie Mallie ; 
An' Mary, nae doubt, took the drunt, 

To be compar'd to Willie ; 
Mall's nit lap out wi' pridefu' fling, 

An' her ain fit it brunt it ; 
While W r illie lap, and swoor, by jing, 

'Twas just the way he wanted 

To be that night. 



Nell had the fause-house in her min', 

She pits hersel an' Rob in ; 
In loving bleeze they sweetly join. 

'Till white in ase they're sobbin' ; 
Nell's heart was dancin' at the view, 

She whisper'd Rob to leuk for't : 
Rob, stownlins, prie'd her bonie mou', 

Fu' cozie in the neuk for't, 

Unseen that night. 



1 They go to the barn -yard, and pull each at three several times, a 
stalk of oats. If the third stalk wants the top-pickle, that is, the 
grain at the top of the stalk, the party in question will come to the 
marriage-bed any thing but a maid. 

2 When the corn is in a doubtful state, by being too green or wet, 
the stack -builder by means of old timber, &c, makes a large apart- 
ment in his stack, with an opening in the side which is fairest ex- 
posed to the wind: this he calls a fause-house. 

3 Hurning the nuts is a famous charm. They name the lad and lass 
toer.cn particular nut, as thev lay them in the fire, and according us 
OiW burn quietly together, or start from beside one another, the 
B urse and issue of the courtship will be. 



But Merran sat behint their backs, 

Her thoughts on Andrew Bell ; 
She lea'es them gashin' at their crack.% 

And slips out by hersel : 
She through the yard the nearest taks. 

An' to the kiln she goes then, 
An' darklins graipit for the banks, 

And in the blue-clue 1 throws then, 

Right fear't that niguf. 



An' ay she win't, an' ay she swat, 

I wat she made nae jaukin' ; 
'Till something held within the pat, 

Guid L — d ! but she was quaukin' \ 
But whether 'twas the Deil himsel, 

Or whether 'twas a bauk-en', 
Or whether it was Andrew Bell, 

She did na wait on talkin' 

To spier that night 






Wee Jenny to her graunie says, 

a Will ye go wi' me, graunie ? 
Ill eat the apple 2 at the glass, 

I gat frae uncle Johnie :" 
She fuff't her pipe wi' sic a lunt, 

In wrath she was sae vap r rin' ? 
She notic't na, an aizle brunt 

Her braw new worset apron 

Out thro' that night, 



' Ye little skelpie-limmer's face ! 

I daur you try sic sportin', 
As seek the foul Thief onie place, 

For him to spae your fortune : 
Nae doubt but ye may get a sight ! 

Great cause ye hae to fear it ; 
For mo-nie a ane has gotten a fright, 

An' liv'd an' died deleeret 

On sic a night. 



" Ae hairst afore the Sherra-moor, 

I mind't as weel's yestreen, 
I was a gilpey then, I'm sure 

I was na past fifteen : 
The simmer had been cauld an' wat, 

An' stuff was unco green ; 
An' ay a ran tin' kirn we gat, 

An' just on Halloween 

It fell that night. 



1 Whoever would, with success, try this spell, must strictly ob- 
serve these directions :— Steal out, all alone, to the kiln, and, darkling, 
throw into the pot a clue of blue yarn ; wind it in a clue off lie old 
cne; and towards the latter end, something will hold the thread ; de- 
mand " wha hauds'" i. e. who holds? an answer will be returned 
from the kiln-pot, naming the Christian and surname of your future 
spouse. 

2 Take a candle, and go alone to a looking-grass ; eat an apple be- 
fore it, and some traditions say, you should comb your hair all the 
time; the face of your conjugal companion, to be, will be seen in tiM* 
Flaw, as if peeping ovet your shoulder. 




OF ROltKKT BURNS. 



"Ourstibble-rig was Rab M'Graen, 

A clever, sturdy fallow : 
His sin gat Eppie Sim wi' wean, 

That liv'd in Achinacalla: 
He gat hemp-seed, 1 I mind it weel, 

And he made unco light o't; 
But monie a day was by himsel', 

He was sae sairly frighted 

That vera night." 



Then up gat fechtin' Jamie Fleck, 

An' he swoor by his conscience, 
That he could saw hemp-seed a peck ; 

For it was a' but nonsense ; 
The auld guidman raught down the pock, 

An' out a' handfti' gied him; 
Syne bad him slip frae 'mang the folk, 

Sometime when nae ane see'd him, 

An' try't that night. 

He marches thro' amang the stacks, 

Tho' he was something sturtin ; 
The graip he for a harrow taks, 

An' haurls at his curpin ; 
An' ev'ry now an' then he says, 

" Hemp-seed I saw thee, 
An' her that is to be my lass, 

Come after me, an' draw thee 

As fast that night." 

He whistl'd up Lord Lennox' march, 

To keep his courage cheery ; 
Altho' his bail* began to arch, 

He was sae fley'd an' eerie : 
'Till presently he hears a squeak, 

An' then a grane an' gruntle ; 
He by his shouther gae a keek, 

An' tumbl'd wi' a wintle 

Out-owre that night. 



He roar'd a horrid murder-shout, 

In dreadfu' desperation ! 
An' young an' auld cam rinnin' out, 

An' hear the sad narration ; 
He swoor 'twas hilchin Jean M'Craw, 

Or crouchie Merran Humphie, 
Till, stop ! she trotted thro' them a' ; 

An wha was it but Grumphie 

Asteer that night ! 



Meg fain wad to the barn hae gaen, 
To win three wechts o' naething; 2 



1 Stea» out unperceived, and sow a handful of hemp-seed, harrow- 
lug it with any thing you can conveniently draw after you. Repeat, 
now and then, " Hemp-seed, I saw thee : hemp-seed I saw thee : and 
him (or her) that is to be my true love, come after me and pou thee." 
Look over your left shoulder, and you will see the appearance of the 
person invoked, in the attitude of pulling hemp. Some traditions 
tav, " Come after me, and shaw thee," that is, show thyself ; in 

vhich case it simply appears. Others omit the harrowing, and say, 
" i'.am? after me, and harrow thee." 

2 This charm must likewise be performed, unperceived, and al^nf. 
Vvj s;o to the barn, and open botli doors, taking them off the hinpes 



But for to meet the deil her lane. 

She pat but little faith in : 
She gies the herd a piclcle nits, 

An' twa red cheokit apples, 
To watch, while for the barn she sets, 

In hopes to see Tarn Kipples 

That vera night. 

She turns the key wi' cannie thraw, 

An' owi'O the threshold ventures ; 
But first on Sawnie gies a ca' 

Syne bauldly in she enters : 
A ratton rattled up the wa', 

An' she cried, L — d, preserve her ! 
An' ran thro' midden-hole an' a', 

An' pray'd wi' zeal and fervour, 

Fu' fast that night. 

They hoy't out Will, wi' sair advice ; 

They hecht him some fine braw ane ; 
It chane'd the stack he faddom't thrice, 1 

Was timmer-propt for thrawin' ; 
He taks a swirlie auld moss oak, 

For some black, grousome carlin ; 
An' loot a winze, an' drew a stroke, 

'Till skin in blypes cam haurlin' 

Aff's nieves that nig 



A wanton widow Leezie was, 

As canty as a kittlin ; 
But, Och ! that night, amang the shaws, 

She got a fearfu' settlin' ! 
She thro' the whins, an' by the cairn, 

An' owre the hill gaed scrievin, 
Where three lairds' lands met at a burn, 2 

To dip her left sark-sleeve in, 

Was bent that night. 

Whyles owre a linn the burnie plays, 

As through the glen it wimpl't ; 
Whyles round a rocky scaur it strays ■ 

Whyles in a wiel it dimpl't ; 
Whyles glitter'd to the nightly rays, 

Wi' bickering, dancing dazzle; 
Whyles cookit underneath the braes, 

Below the spreading hazel, 

Unseen that night. 



if possible ; for there is danger that the being about to app-.flj may 
chut the doors, and do you some mischief. Then take thai iretru. 
mentusedin winnowing the corn, which, in our country dialect, we 
call awecht; and go through all the attitudes of le<-ti':g down corn 
sgainstthe wind. Repeat it Mree times ; and the third time, en appa- 
rition will pass through the tarn, in at the windy dnor, and out at 
the other, having both the figure in question, and the appearance or 
retinue, marking the employment or station in life. 

1 Take an opportunity of going unnoticed, to a bean-stack, aud 
fathom it three times round. The last fathom of the last time, you. 
will catch in your arms the appea. -ince of vour future conjugal yoke- 
fellow. 

2 You go out, one or more, for this is a social spell, to a sou h 
running spring or rivulet, where " three lairds' lands meet," find 
dip your left shirt-sleeve. Go to bed in sight of a fire, and he.TSjr 
your wet sleeve before it to dry. Lie awake: and, some time nsaj 
midnight an apparition having the exact figure of the granu oi> 
ject in question, will come and turn tbe sleeve, as if to drv the ot; « 
side of it. 



30 



THE POETIC A. L WORKS 



Aniang the brackens on the brae, 

Between her an' the moon. 
The deil, or else an outler quey, 

Gat up an' gae a croon : 
Poor Leezie's heart raaist lap the hool ; 

Near lav'rock-height she junrpit, 
But mist a fit, an' in the pool 

Out-owre the lugs she plumpit, 

Wi'a plunge that night. 

In order, on the clean hearth-stane, 

The luggies three ] are ranged, 
And ev'ry time great care is ta'en, 

To see them duly changed: 
Aula uncle John, wha wedlock's joys 

Sin' Mar's year did desire, 
Because he gat the toom-dish thrice, 

He heav'd them on the fire 

In wrath that night. 

Wi' merry sangs, an' friendly cracks, 

I wat they did na weary ; 
An' unco tales, an' funnie jokes, 

Their sports were cheap an' cheery; 
Till butter d so'ns 2 wi' fragrant hint, 

Set a' their gabs a-steerin' ; 
Syne, wi' a social glass o' strunt, 

They parted aff careerin' 

Fu' blythe that night. 



XXVI. 
JHatt foag maSe to JHoum 



[The origin of this fine poem is alluded to by Burns in one of his 
letrers to Mrs. Dunlop : " I had an old grand -uncle with whom my 
mother lived in her girlish years: the good old man was long 
blind ere he died, during which time his highest enjoyment was to 
sic and cry. while my mother would sing the simple old song of ' The 
Life and Age of Man.'" From that truly venerable woman, long 
after the death of her distinguished son, Cromek, in collecting the 
Reiiques, obtained a copy by recitation of the older strain. Though the 
tone and sentiment coincide closely with " Man was made to 
Mourn," 1 agree with Lockhart, that Burns wrote it in obedience to 
.lis own habitual lcchngs.j 



When chill November's surly blast 
Made fields and forests bare, 

One ev'ning, as I wandered forth 
Along the banks of Ayr, 



1 Take three dishes: put clean water in or.e, foul water in another, 
and leave the third empty ; blindfold a person and lead him to the 
hearth where the dishes are ranged ; he (or she) dips the left hand: 
if by chance in the clean water, the future husband or wife will come 
to the bar of matrimony a maid ; if in the foul, a widow ; if in the 
empty dish, it foretelis, with equal certainty, no marriage at alL It 
is repeated three times, and e\ ery time the arrangement of the dishes 
ua terea. 

2 Sowens, with butter instead of milk to them, is always the Hal- 
loween supper. 



I spy'd a man whose aged step 

Seem'd weary, worn with cure : 
His face was furrow'd o'er with years, 

And hoary was his hair. 

" Young stranger, whither wand'rest thou F 

Began the rev'rend sage ; 
" Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain, 

Or youthful pleasure's rage ? 
Or haply, prest with cares and woes, 

Too soon thou hast began 
To wander forth, with me to mourn 

The miseries of man. 

" The sun that overhangs yen moors, 

Out-spreading far and wide, 
"Where hundreds labour to support 

A haughty lordling's pride : 
I've seen yon weary winter-sun 

Twice forty times return, 
And ev'ry time has added proofs 

That man was made to mourn. 

" O man ! while in thy early years, 

How prodigal of time ! 
Mispending all thy precious hours, 

Thy glorious youthful prime ! 
Alternate follies take the sway ; 

Licentious passions burn ; 
Which tenfold force gives nature's law. 

That man was made to mourn. 

" Look not alone on youthful prime, 

Or manhood's active might ; 
Man then is useful to his kind, 

Supported in his right : 
But see him on the edge of life, 

With cares and sorroAvs worn ; 
Then age and want — oh ! ill match'd pair ! — 

Show man was made to mourn. 

" A few seem favourites of fate, 

In pleasure's lap carest : 
Yet, think not all the rich and great 

Are likewise truly blest. 
But, oh ! what crowds in every land, 

All wretched and forlorn ! 
Thro' weary life this lesson learn — 

That man was made to mourn. 



" Many and sharp the num'rous ills 

Inwoven with our frame t 
More pointed still we make ourselves, 

Regret, remorse, and shame ! 
And man, whose heaven -erected face 

The smiles of love adorn, 
Man's inhumanity to man 

Makes countless thousands mourn ! 

" See yonder poor, o'erlabour'd wight-. 

So abject, mean, and vile, 
Who begs a brother of the earth 

To give him leave to toil ; 




3S3d 



- 9 | 






OF ROBERT BURNS. 



31 



And see his lordly fellow-worm 

The poor petition spurn, 
Unmindful, though a weeping wife 

And helpless offspring mourn. 

" If I'm design'd yon lordling's slave — 

By Nature's law design'd — 
Why was an independent wish 

E'er planted in my mind ? 
If not, why am I subject to 

His cruelty or scorn ? 
Or why has man the will and power 

To make his fellow mourn ? 

"Yet, let not this too much, my son, 

Disturb thy youthful breast ; 
Thjs partial view of human-kind 

Is surely not the best ! 
The poor, oppressed, honest man 

Had never, sure, been born, 
Had there not been some recompense 

To comfort those that mourn ! 

" Death ! the poor man's dearest friend- 

The kindest and the best ! 
"Welcome the hour, my aged limbs 

Are laid with thee at rest ! 
The great, the wealthy, fear thy blow, 

From pomp and pleasure torn ! 
Biyt, oh ! a blest relief to those 

Tliat weary-laden mourn. " 



XXVII. 

^Fo $tum. 



[«' I have been," says Burns, in his common-place book, " taking a 
peep through , as "Soung finely says, 'The dark postern of time long 
elapsed.' 'Twas a rueful prospect! What a tissue of thoughtlessness, 
weakness, and felly ! my life reminded me of a ruined temple. What 
etrength, what proportion in some parts ! what unsightly gaps, what 
prostrate ruins in others !" The fragment, To Ruin, seems tc have 
had its origin in moments such as these.] 



Alt. hail ! inexorable lord ! 

At whose destruction-breathing word, 

The mightiest empires fall ! 
T*hy cruel, woe-delighted train, 
The ministers of grief and pain, 

A sullen welcome, all ! 
With stern-resolv'd, despairing eye, 

I see each aimed dart ; 
For one has cut my dearest tie, 
And quivers in my heart. 
Then low'ring and pouring, 
- The storm no more I dread ; 
Though thick'ning and black'ning, 
Round my devoted head. 



And thou grim pow'r, by life abhcrr'cl 
While life a pleasure can afford. 

()■ ! hear a wi etch's prayer ! 
No more I shrink appall 'd, afraid , 
I court, I beg thy friendly aid, 
To close this scene of care ! 
When shall my soul, in silent peace, 

Resign life's joyless day ; 
My weary heart its throbbings cease. 
Cold mould'ring in the clay ? 
No fear more, no tear more, 
To stain my lifeless face ; 
Enclasped, and grasped 
Within thy cold embx-ace ! 



XXVIII 

TO 

%o\)\\ (Eoutue of i&tlmarnO£&. 

ON THE PUBLICATION OF HIS KSSAVS. 



[This burning commentary, by Eurns, on the Essays cf Goudir m 
the Macgill controversy, was first published by Stewart, with the 
Jolly L'eggars, in 1801 ; it is akin in life and spirit to Holy WilHe?s 
Player ; and may be cited as a sample of the wit and the force which 
the poet brought to the great, but now forgotten, controversy of liiy 
West.J 

O Goudie ! terror of the Whigs, 
Dread of black coats and rev'rend wigs, 
Sour Bigotry, on her last legs, 

Girnin', looks back, 
Wishin' the ten Egyptian plagues 

Wad seize you quick 

Poor gapin', glowrin' Superstition, 

Waes me ! she's in a sad condition : 

Fie ! bring Black Jock, her state physician., 

To see her water. 
Alas ! there's ground o' great suspicion 

She'll ne'er get better. 

Auld Orthodoxy lang did grapple, 
But now she's got an unco ripple ; 
Haste, gie her name up i' the chapel, 

Nigh unto death; 
See, how she fetches at the thrapple, 

An' gasps for breath. 

Enthusiasm's past redemption, 
Gaen in a gallopin consumption, 
Not a' the quacks, wi' a' their gumption, 

Will ever mend her. 
Her feeble pulse gies strong presumption 

Death soon will end her. 

'Tis you and Taylor 1 are the chief, 
Wha are to blame for this mischief, 
But gin the Lord's ain focks gat leave, 

A toom tar-barrel, 
An' twa red peats wad send relief, 

An' end the quarrel. 

Dt. Taylor, of Norwich 



32 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



XXIX. 



AN OLD SCOTTTSH BARD. 
Ap)ll 1st, ljb'o. 

(FIRST EPISTLE.) 



r,t The epL-tle to John Lapraik," savs Gilbert Burns, " was produced 
exactly on the occasion described by the author. Rocking, is a term 
derived from primitive times, when our country-women employed 
their spare hours in spinning on tho roke or distaff. This simple in- 
strument 5s a very portable one ; and well fitted to the social inclina- 
tion of meeting in a neighbour's house; hence the phrase of going a 
rocking, or with the roke. As the connexion the phrase had with 
the implement was forgotten when the roke gave place to the spin- 
ning-wheel, the phrase came to be used by both sexes, on social occa- 
sions, and men talk of going with their rokes as well as women."] 

While briers an' woodbines budding green, 
An' paitricks scraicbin' loud at e'en, 
An' morning poussie whidden seen, 

Inspire my muse, 
Tbis freedom in an unknown frien' 

I pray excuse. 

On Fasten-een we had a rockin', 

To ca' the crack and weave our stockin' ; 

And there was niuckle fun an' jokin', 

Ye need na doubt ; 
At length we had a hearty yokin' 

At sang about. 

There was ae sang, amang the rest, 
Aboon them a' it pleas'd me best, 
That some kind husband had addrest 

To some sweet wife ; 
It thirl 'd the heart-strings thro' the breast, 

A' to the life. 

I've scarce heard ought describ'd sae weel, 
What gen'rous, manly bosoms feel ; 
Thought I, " Can this be Pope, or Steele, 

Or Beattie's wark ?" 
They told me 'twas an odd kind chiel 

About Muirkirk. 

It pat me fidgin-fain to hear't, 
And sae about him there I spier' t, 
Then a' that ken't him round declar'd 

He had ingine, 
That, nane excell'd it, few cam near't, 

It was sae fine. 

That, set him to a pint of ale, 

An' either douce or merry tale, 

Or rhymes an' sangs he'd made hirosel, 

Or witty catches, 
Tween Inverness and Tiviotdale, 

He had few matches. 

Then up I gat, an' swoor an aifch, 

Tho' I should pawn my pleugh and graith, 

Or die n cadger pownies' death, 

At some dyke-back, 
A. pint an' gill I'd (*ie thembaith 

To hear your crack. 



But, first an' foremost, I should tell, 
Amaist as soon as I could spell, 
I to the crambo-jingle fell, 

Tho' rude an' rough, 
Yet crooning to a body's sel', 

Does weel eneugh. 

I am nae poet in a sense, 

But just a rhymer, like, by chance, 

An' hae to learning nae pretence, 

Yet what the matter ? 
Whene'er my Muse does on me glance* 

I jingle at her. 

Your critic-folk may cock then' nose, 
And say, " How can you e'er propose, 
You, wha ken hardly verse frae prose. 

To mak a sang ?" 
But, by your leaves, my learned foes, 

Ye re may be wrang. 

What's a' your jargon o' your schools, 
Your Latin names for horns an' stools ; 
If honest nature made you fools, 

What sairs your grarmQCrs? 
Ye'd better taen up spades and shools, 

Or knappin-hammers. 

A set o' dull, conceited hashes, 
Confuse their brains in college classes ! 
They gang in stirks and come out asses, 

Plain truth to speak ; 
An' syne they think to climb Parnassus 

By dint o' Greek ! 

Gie me ae spark o' Nature's fire ! 

That's a' the learning I desire ; 

Then though 1 drudge thro' dub an' mux 1 

At pleugh or cart, 
My muse, though hamely in attire, 

May touch the heart. 

for a spunk o' Allan's glee, 

Or Fergusson's, the bauld and slee, 
Or bright Lapraik' s, my friend to be, 

If I can hit it ! 
That would be lear eneugh for me, 

If I could get it \ 

Now, sir, if ye hae friends enow, 
Tho' real friends, I b'lieve, are few, 
Yet, if your catalogue be fou, 

I'se no insist, 
But gif ye want ae friend that's true — 

I'm on your list. 

1 winna tyaw about mysel ; 
As ill I like my fauts to tell ; 

But friends an' folk that wish me well, 

They sometimes rocse nv? 

Tho' I maun own, as monie still 

As far abuse mo. 



i 



O* ROBERT BURNS. 



33 



Titer's a,<i wee faut they whiles lay to me, 

I like the lasses — Chide lorgie me ! 

For monie a plack they wheedle frae me, 

At dance or fair; 
May be some ither thing tJiey gie me 

They weel can spare. 

But Mauchline race, or Mauchline fair ; 
I should be proud to meet you there ! 
We'se gie ae night's discharge to care, 

If we forgather, 
An' hae a swap o' rhymin'-ware 

Wi' ane anither. 

The four-gill chap, we'se gar him clatter, 
An' kirsen him wi' reekin' water ; 
Syne we'll sit down an' task our whitter, 

To cheer our heart ; 
An' faith, we'se be acquainted better, 

Before we part. 

Awa, ye selfish, warly race, 

Wha think that havins, sense, an' grace, 

Ev'n love an' friendship, should give place 

To catch- the-plack ! 
I dinna like to see your face, 

Nor hear your crack. 

But ye whom social pleasure charms, 
Whose hearts the tide of kindness warms i 
Who hold your being on the terms, 

" Each aid the others/' 
Come to my bowl, come to my arms, 

My friends, my brothers ! 

But, to conclude my lang epistle, 

As my auld pen's worn to the grisslo ; 

Twa lines frae you wad gar me fissle, 

Who am, most fervent, 
While I can either sing or whistle, 

Your friend and servaat. 



XXX. 



% Sapraffc. 

(second epistle.) 



[The John Lapraik to whom these epistles are addressed lived at 
Dalfram in the neighbourhood of Muirkirk, and was a rustic wor- 
bhipper of the Muse : he unluckily, however, involved himself in that 
Western bubble, the Ayr Bank, and consoled himself by composing 
In his distress that song which moved the heart of Burns, begin- 
ning 

" When I upon thy bosom lean. 1 ' 

He afterwards published a volume of verse, of a quality which 
proved that the inspiration in his £ong of domestic sorrow was no 
settled power of soul.] 



April list ^ 1/85. 

"While new-ca'd kye rowte at the stake, 
An' powmes reek in plewgh or braik, 



This hour on e'enin's edge I taitii 

To own I'm debtor, 

To honest-hearted, auld Lapraik, 

For his kind letter. 

Forjesket sair, wi' weary legs, 
Rattlin' the corn out-owre the rigs, 
Or dealing thro' amang the naigs 

Their ten hours' bit€ x 
My awkart muse sair pleads and begs. 

I would na write. 

The tapetless ramfeezl'd hizzie, 
She's saft at best, and something lazy, 
Quo' she, " Ye ken, we've been sae busy, 

This month an' mair, 
That trouth, my head is grown right dizzie, 

An' something sair." 

Her dowfF excuses pat me mad : 

" Conscience," says I, " ye thowless jad : 

I'll write, an' that a hearty blaud, 

This vera night ; 
So dinna ye affront your trade, 

But rhyme it right. 

" Shall bauld Lapraik, the king o' hearts, 
Tho' mankind were a pack o' cartes, 
Eoose you sae weel for your deserts, 

In terms sae friendrv, 
Yet ye'll neglect to shaw your parts, 

An' thank him kindly ?** 

Sae I gat paper in a blink 

An' down gaed stumpie in the ink : 

Quoth I, " before I sleep a wink, 

I vow I'll close it ; 
An' if ye winna mak it clink, 

By Jove I'll prose it i* 4 

Sae I've begun to scrawl, but whether 
In rhyme, or prose, or baith thegither, 
Or some hotch-potch that's rightly neither, 

Let time mak proof ; 
But I shall scribble down some blether 

Just clean aff-loof. 

My worthy friend, ne'er grudge an' carp. 
Tho' fortune use yon hard an' sharp ; 
Come, kittle up your moorland-harp 

Wi' gleesome touch f 
Ne'er mind how fortune waft an' warp j 

She's but a b-tch. 

She's gien me monie a jirt an' fieg, 
Sin' I could striddle owre a rig ; 
But, by the L-- d, tho' I should beg 

Wi' lyart pow, 
I'll laugh, an' sing, an' shake my leg, 

As lang's I dow ! 

Now comes the sax an' twentieth simmer, 
I've seen the bud upo' the t humor, 






84 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



Still persecuted by the limmer 

Frae year to year ; 

But yet despite the kittle kimmer, 

I, Rob, am here. 

Do ye envy the city gent, 

Behint a kist to lie and sklent, 

Or purse-proud, big wi* cent, per cent. 

And muckle wame, 
In some bit brugh to represent 

A bailie's name ? 

Or is't the paughty, feudal Thane, 
Wi' ruffl'd sark an' glancing cane, 
Wha thinks himsel nae sheep-shank bane, 

But lordly stalks, 
"While caps and bonnets aff are taen, 

As by he walks ! 

" Thou wha gies us each guid gift ! 
Gie me o' wit an' sense a lift, 
Then turn me, if Thou please, adrift, 

Thro' Scotland wide ; 
Wi' cits nor lairds I wadna shift, 

In a' their pride !" 

Were this the charter of our state, 
" On pain' o' hell be rich an' great," 
Damnation then would be our fate, 

Beyond remead ; 
But, thanks to Heav'n, that's no the gate 

We learn our creed. 

For thus the royal mandate ran, 
When first the human race began, 
" The social, friendly, honest man, 

Whate'er he be, 
'Tis he fulfils great Nature's plan, 

An' none but he !" 

mandate, glorious and divine ! 
The followers o' the ragged Nine, 
Poor, thoughtless devils ! yet may shine 

In glorious light, 
While sordid sons o' Mammon's line 

Are dark as night. 

Tho' here they scrape, an' squeeze, an' growl, 
Their worthless nievfu' of a soul 
May in some future carcase howl 

The forest's fright ; 
Or in some day-detesting owl 

May shun the light. 

Then may Lapraik and Burns arise, 
To reach their native kindred skies, 
And sing their pleasures, hopes, an' joys, 

In some mild sphere, 
Still closer knit in friendship's ties 

Each passing year ! 



XXXI. 



% Saptatlt. 
(third epistle.) 



[I have heard one of our most distinguished English poets recite uitn 
ft sort of ecstacy some of the verses of these epistles, and praise the easj 
of the language and the happiness of the thoughts. He averred, how- 
ever, that the poet, when pinched for a word, hesitate! not to coin 
one, and instanced, " tapetless," " ramfeezled," and'^orjesket/'as 
intrusions in our dialect. These words seem indeed, to some Scotch- 
men, strange and uncouth, but they are true words of the \t est.] 



Sept. I'Sth, 1/86. 

Guid speed an' furder to you Johnny, 
Guid health, hale han's, an' weather bonny j 
Now when ye' re nickan down fu' canny 

The staff o' bread, 
May ye ne'er want a stoup o' bran'y 

To clear your head. 

May Boreas never thresh your rigs, 
Nor kick your rickles aff their legs, 
Sendin' the stuff o'er muirs an' haggs 

Like drivin' wrack ; 
But may the tapmast grain that wags 

Come to the sack. 

I'm bizzie too, an' skelpin' at it, 

But bitter, daudin' showers hae wat it, 

Sae my auld stumpie pen I gat it 

Wi' muckle wark, 
An' took my jocteleg an' whatt it, 

Like ony dark. 

It's now twa month that I'm your debtor, 
For your braw, nameless, dateless letter, 
Abusin' me for harsh ill nature 

On holy men, 
While deil a hair yoursel' ye're better, 

But mair profane. 

But let the kirk-folk ring their bells, 
Let's sing about our noble sel's ; 
We'll cry nae jads frae heathen hills 

To help, or roose us, 
But browster wives an' whiskey stills, 

They are the muses. 

Your friendship, Sir, I winna quat it, 

An' if ye mak' objections at it, 

Then han' in nieve some day we'll knot it. 

An' witness take, 
An' when wi' Usquabae we've wat it 

It winna break. 

But if the beast and branks be spar'd 
Till kye be gaun without the herd, 
An' a' the vittel in the yard, 

An' theekit light, 
J mean your ingle-side to guard 

Ae winter night. 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



35 



Thou muse-inspirin' aqua-vitae 

8hau make us baith sae bly the an' witty, 

Till ye forget ye're auld an' gatty, 

An' be as canty, 
As ye were nine year less than thretty, 

Sweet ane an' twenty ! 

But stooka are cowpet wi' the blast, 
An' now the sin keeks in the west, 
Then I maun rin amang the rest 

An' quat my chanter ; 
Sae I subscribe myself in haste, 
v Your's, Rab the Ranter. 



XXXII. 

TO 

S&ilUam jfcimpgon, 

OCHILTREE. 



[The person to whom this epistle is addressed, was schoolmaster 
of Ochiltree, and afterwards of New Lanark: he was a writer of 
verses too, like many more of the poet's comrades ;— of verses which 
rose not above the barren level of mediocrity : " one of his poems," says 
Chambers, "was a laughable elegy on the death of the Emperor PauL" 
In his verses to Burns, under the name of a Tailor, there is nothing 
to laugh at, though they ar,e intended to be laughable as well as 
monitory.] 



May, 1785. 

I gat your letter, winsome Willie ; 
Wi' gratefu' heart I thank you brawlie ; 
Tho' I maun say't, I wad be silly, 

An' unco vain, 
Should I believe, my coaxin' billie, 

Your flatterin' strain. 



But I'se believe ye kindly meant it, 
I sud be laith to think ye hinted 
Ironic satire, sidelins sklented 

On my poor Musie ; 
Tho' in sic phraisin' terms ye've penn'd it, 

I scarce excuse ye. 

My senses wad be in a creel, 
Should I but dare a hope to speel, 
Wi' Allan, or wi' Gilbertfield, 

The braes o' fame ; 
Or Fergusson, the writer chiel, 

A deathless name. 



Fergusson ! thy glorious parts 

111 suited law's dry, musty arts ! 

My .curse upon your whunstano hearts, 

Ye Enbrugh gentry ! 

The tythe o' what ye waste at cartes- 
Wad stow'd his pantry*!) 



Yet when a tale comes i' my nead, 

Or Masses gie my heart a screed, 

As whiles they're like to be my dead 

(O sad disease !) 
I kittle up my rustic reed ; 

It gies me ease. 



Auld Coila, now, may fidge fu' fain, 

She's gotten poets o' her ain, 

Chi els wha their chanters winna hain, 

But tune their lays, 
Till echoes a' resound again 

Her weel-sung praise 

Naepoet thought her worth his while, 
To set her name in measur'd stile ; 
She lay like some unkenn'd-of isle 

Beside New-Holland, 
Or whare wild-meeting oceans boil 

Besouth Magellan. 

Ramsay an' famous Fergusson 
Gied Forth an' Tay a lift aboon ; 
Yarrow an' Tweed, to monie a tune, 

Owre Scotland ringa 
While Irwin, Lugar, Ayr, an' Doon, 

Nae body sings. 

Th' Illissus, Tiber, Thames, an' Seine, 
Glide sweet in monie a tunefu' line ! 
But, Willie, set your fit to mine, 

An' cock your crest, 
We'll gar our streams an' burnies shine 

Up wi' the best. 

We'll sing auld Coila's plains an' fells, 
Her moors red-brown wi' heather bells, 
Her banks an' braes, her dens an' dells, 

Where glorious Wallace 
Aft bure the gree, as story tells, 

Frae southron billiea. 

At Wallace' name, what Scottish blood 
But boils up in a spring-tide flood ! 
Oft have our fearless fathers strode 

By Wallace' side, 
Still pressing onward, red-wat shod, 

Or glorious dy'd. 

sweet are Coila's haughs an' woods, 
When lintwhites chant amang the buds, 
And jinkin' hares, in amorous whids 

Their loves enjoy, 
While thro' the braes the cushat croods 

With wailfu' cry ! 



Ev'n winter bleak has charms to me 
When winds rave thro' the naked tree ; 
Or frosts on hills of Ochiltree 

Are hoary gray : 
Or blinding drifts wild-furious flee, 

Dark'ning the day 



$6 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



O Nature ! a' thy shews an' forms 
To feeling, pensive hearts hae charms ! 
Whether the summer kindly warms, 

Wi' life an' light, 
Or winter howls, in gusty storms, 

The lang, dark night ! 

The muse, nae Poet ever fand her, 
'Till by himsel' he learn'd to wander, 
Adown some trotting burn's meander, 

An' no think lang ; 
O sweet, to stray an' pensive ponder 

A heart-felt sang ! 

The warly race may drudge an' drive, 
Hog-shouther, jundie, stretch an' strive, 
Let me fair Nature's face descrive, 

And I, wi' pleasure, 
Shall let the busy, grumbling hive 

Bum owre their treasure. 

Fareweel, my " rhyme-composing brither !" 
We've been owre lang unkenn'd to ither : 
Now let us lay our heads thegither, 

In love fraternal ; 
May envy wallop in a tether, 

Black fiend, infernal ! 

"While Highlandmen hate tolls an' taxes ; 
While moorlan' herds like guid fat braxies ; 
While terra firma, on her axis 

Diurnal turns, 
Count on a friend, in faith an' practice, 

In Robert Burns. 



postscript. 



My memory's no worth a preen; 

J had amaist forgotten clean, 

Ye bade me write you what they mean, 

By this New Light, 
'Bout which our herds sae aft hae been 

Maist like to fight. 

In days when mankind were but callans 

At grammar, logic, an' sic talents, 

They took nae pains their speech to balance, 

Or rules to gie, 
But spak their thoughts in plain, braid Lallans, 

Like you or me. 

In thae auld times, they thought the moon, 
Just like a sark, or pair o' shoon, 
Wore by degrees, 'till her last roon, 

Gaed past their viewing, 
An' shortly after she was done, 

They gat a new one. 

This past for certain — undisputed ; 
It ne'er cam i' their heads to doubt it, 
'Till chiols gat up an' wad confute it, 

An' ca'dit wrang; 
Aji' ruckle din there was about it, 

Baith loud an' lang. 



Some herds, weel learn'd upo' the heuk, 
Wad threap auld folk the thing misteuk s 
For 'twas the auld moon turned a neuk. 

An' out o' sight, 
An' backlins-comin', to the leuk, 

She grew mair bright 

This was deny'd, it was affirmed ; 

The herds an' hissels were alarmed : 

The rev'rend gray-beards rav'd an' storm'd 

That beardless laddies 
Should think they better were inform 'd 

Than their auld daddies. 

Frae less to mair it gaed to sticks ; 
Frae words an' aiths to clours an' nicks, 
An' monie a fallow gat his licks, 

Wi' hearty crunt ; 
An' some, to learn them for their tricks, 

Were hang'd an' bruui, 

This game was play'd in monie lands, 
An' Auld Light caddies bure sic hands, 
That, faith, the youngsters took the sands 

Wi' nimble shanks, 
'Till lairds forbade, by strict commands, 

Sic bluidy pranks. 

But New Light herds gat sic a cowe, 
Folk thought them ruin'd stick-an'-stowe, 
Till now amaist on every knowe, 

Ye'll find ane plac'd ; 
An' some their New Light fair avow, 

Just quite barefac'd. 

Nae doubt the Auld Light flocks are bleatin' ? 
Their zealous herds are vex'd an' sweatin' ; 
Mysel', I've even seen them greetin' 

Wi' girnin' spite. 
To hear the moon sae sadly lie'd on 

By word an' write. 

But shortly they will cowe the loons; 
Some Auld Light herds in neebor towns 
Are mind't in things they ca' balloons, 

To tak a flight, 
An' stay ae month amang the moons 

And see them righi, 

Guid observation they will gie them : 

An when the auld moon's gaun to lea'e them, 

The hindmost shaird, they'll fetch it wi' them, 

Just i' their pouch, 
An' when the New Light Tallies see them, 

I think they'll crouch ! 

Sae, ye observe that a' this clatter 

Is naething but a " moonshine matter;" 

But tho' didl prose-folk Latin splatter 

In logic tuizie, 
I hope we bardies ken some better 

Than mind sic hruJzio. 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



37 



XXXIII. 

ADDRESS 

TO AM 

Illegitimate ©fttlfc. 



[This hasty and not very decorous effusion, was originally entitled 
•* The Poet's Welcome; or, Rab the Rhymer's Address to his Bastard 
Child.'" A copy, with the more softened, but less expressive title, was 
published by Stewart, in 1801, and is alluded toby Burns himself, in 
his biographical letter to Moore. " Bonnie Betty," the mother of the 
" sonsie-smirking, dear-bought Bess," of the Inventory, lived in Lar- 
gieside : to support this daughter the poet made over the copyright of 
his works when he proposed to go to the West Indies. She lived to be 
a woman, and to marry one John Bishop, overseer at Polkemmet. 
where she caal in DJ17. It is said she resembled Bums quite as much 
as any of the rest of his children.] 



Thou's welcome, wean, mislianter fa' me, 
If ought of thee, or of thy mammy, 
Shall ever daunton me, or awe me, 

My sweet wee lady, 
Or if I blush when thou shalt ca' me 

Tit-ta or daddy. 

Wee image of my bonny Betty, 
I, fatherly will kiss an' daut thee, 
As dear an' near my heart I set thee 

Wi' as gude will 
As a 1 the priests had seen me get thee 

That's out 0' hell. 

What tho' they ca' me fornicator, 
An' tease my name in kintry clatter : 
The mair they tank I'm kent the better, 

E'en let them clash ; 
An auld wife's tongue's a feckless matter 

To gie ane fash. 

Sweet fruit o' mony a merry dint, 

My funny toil is now a' tint, 

Sin' thou came to the warl asklent, 

Which fools may scoff at ; 
In mj last plack thy part's be in't 

Tho better ha'f o't. 

An' if thou be what I wad hae thee, 
An' tak the counsel I sail gie thee, 
A lovin' father I'll be to thee, 

If thou be spar'd ; 
Thro' a' thy childish years I'll e'e thee, 

An' think't weel war'd. 

Gude grant that thou may ay inherit 
Thy mither's person, grace, an' mei-it, 
An' thy poor worthless dady's spirit, 

Without his failins; 
Twill please me mair to hear an' see it 

Than stocket mailens. 



XXXIV, 

Nature's Eafo. 

A POEM HUMBLY INSCRIBED TO G. H. ESQ. 

" Great nature spoke, observant man obey 'd." 

Pope. 



[This Poem, was written by Bums at Mossgiel, and " humbly in- 
scribed to Gavin Hamilton, Esq." It is supposed to allude to his in- 
tercourse with Jean Armour, with the circumstances of which he 
seems to have made many of his comrades acquainted. These versei 
were weli known to many of the admirers of the poet, but they 
remained in manuscript till given to the world by Si)' Harris Nico- 
las, in Pickering's Aldine Edition of the British Poets.] 



Let other heroes boast their scars, 

The marks of sturt and strife ; 
And other poets sing of wars, 

The plagues of human life; 
Shame fa' the fun ; wi' sword and gun 

To slap mankind like lumber ! 
I sing his name, and nobler fame, 

Wha multiplies our number. 

Great Nature spoke, with air benign, 

" Go on, ye human race ! 
This lower world I you resign ; 

Be fruitful and increase. 
The liquid fire of strong desire 

I've pour'd it in each bosom ; 
Here, in this hand, does mankind stand, 

And there, is beauty's blossom." 

The hero of these artless strains, 

A lowly bard was he, 
Who sung his rhymes in Coila's plains 

With meikle mirth an' glee ; 
Kind Nature's care had given his share, 

Large, of the flaming current ; 
And all devout, he never sought 

To stem the sacred torrent. 



He felt the powerful, high behest, 

Thrill vital through and through ; 
And sought a correspondent breast, 

To give obedience due : 
Propitious Powers screen'd the young flowers, 

Prom mildews of abortion ; 
And lo ! the bard, a great reward, 

Has got a double portion ! 

Auld cantie Coil may count the day, 

As animal it returns, 
The third of Libra's equal sway, 

That gave another B[urns], 
Witli future rhymes, an' other times, 

To emulate his sire ; 
To sing auld Coil in nobler style, 

With more poetic fire. 



SB 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



Ye Powers of peace, and peaceful song, 

Look down with gracious eyes ; 
And bless auld Coila, large and long, 

With multiplying joys : 
Lang may she stand to prop the land, 

The flow'r of ancient nations ; 
And B[urns's] spring, her fame to sing, 

Thro' endless generations 1 , 



XXXV. 

2To t&c &eb go&n i&'#lati) 



[Poor M 'Math was at the period of this epistle assistant to Wod. 
row, minister of Tarbolton: he was a good preacher, a mode- 
rate man in matters of discipline, and an intimate of the Coils- 
field Montgomery's. His dependent condition depressed his spirits : 
he grew dissipated; and finally, it is said, enlisted as a common sol- 
dier, and died in a foreign land.] 



Sept. 17 th, 1785. 

While at the stook the shearers cow'r 
To shun the bitter blaudin' show'r, 
Or in gulravage rinnin' scow'r 

To pass the time, 
To you I dedicate the hour 

In idle rhyme. 

My musie, tir'd wi' mony a sonnet 

On gown, an' ban', an' douse black bonnet, 

Is grown right eerie now she's done it, 

Lest they should blame her, 
An' rouse their holy thunder on it 

And anathem her. 

I own 'twas rash, an' rather hardy, 
That I, a simple countra bardie, 
Sliou'd meddle wi' a pack sae sturdy, 

Wha, if they ken me, 
Can easy, wi' a single wordie, 

Lowse hell upon me. 

But I gae mad at their grimaces, 
Their sighin' cantin' grace-proud faces, 
Their three-mile prayers, an hauf-mile graces, 

Their raxin' conscience, 
Whase greed, revenge, an' pride disgraces, 

AVaur nor their nonsense. 

There's Gaun, 1 miska't waur than a beast, 
Wha has mair honour in his breast 
Than mony scores as guid's the priest 

Wha sae abus't him. 
An' may a bard no crack his jest 

What way they've use't him. 



1 Gavin Hamilton Ksq. 



See him, the poor man's friend in need, 
The gentleman in word an' deed. 
An' shall his fame an' honour bleed 

By worthless skellums. 
An' not a muse erect her head 

To cowe the blellums ? 

O Pope, had I thy satire's dart& 
To gie the rascals their deserts, 
I'd rip their rotten, hollow hearts, 

An' tell aloud 
Their jugglin' hocus-pocus arts 

To cheat the crowd. 

God knows, I'm no the thing I shou'd be. 
Nor am I even the thing I cou'd be, 
But twenty times, I rather wou'd be 

An atheist clean, 
Than under gospel colours hid be 

. Just for a screen. 

An honest man may like a glass, 
An honest man may like a lass, 
But mean revenge, an' malice fause 

He'll still disdain, 
An' then cry zeal for gospel laws, 

Like some we ken. 

They take religion in their mouth? 
They talk o' mercy, grace an' truth, 
For what ? — to gie their malice skouth 

On some puir wight, 
An' hunt him down, o'er right an' ruth. 

To ruin straight. 

All hail, Religion ! maid divine ! 
Pardon a muse sae mean as mine, 
Who in her rough imperfect line, 

Thus daurs to name thee 
To stigmatize false friends of thine 

Can ne'er defame thee, 

Tho' blotch' d an' foul wi' mony a stain, 

An' far unworthy of thy train, 

With trembling voice I tune my strain 

To join with those, 
Who boldly daur thy cause maintain 

In spite o' foes : 

In spite o' crowds, in spite o' mobs, 
In spite of undermining jobs, 
In spite o' dark banditti stabs 

At worth an' merit, 
By scoundrels, even wi' holy robes, 

But hellish spirit. 

Ayr ! my dear, my native ground, 
Within thy presbyterial bound 
A candid lib'ral band is found 

Of public teachers, 
As men, as Christians too, renown'd, 

An' manly preachers 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



89 



Sir, in that circ.e you are nam'd ; 
Sir, in that circle you are fam'd ; 
An' some, by whom your doctrine's blam'd, 

(Which gies you honour,) 
Even Sir, by them your heart's esteem' d, 

An' winning manner. 

Pardon this freedom I have ta'en, 
An' if impertinent I've been, 
Impute it not, good Sir, in ane 

Whase heart ne'er wrang'd ye, 
But to his utmost would befriend 

Ought that belang'd ye. 



XXXVI 

2To a 0to\x$t, 

ON TURNING HER UP IN HER NEST WITH THE 
PLOUGH, NOVEMBER, 1785. 



[This beautiful poem was imagined while the poet was holding 
the plough, on the farm of Mossgiel: the field is still pointed out; 
and a man called Blane is still living, who says he "was gaudsman to 
the bard at the time, and chased the mouse with the plough-pettle, 
for which he was rebuked by his young master, who inquired what 
harm the poor mouse had done him. In the night that followed, 
Burns awoke his gaudsrnan, who was in the same bed with him, 
recited the poem as it now stands, and said, " What think you of out 
mouse now ?"J 



"Wee, sleekit, cow'rin', tim'rous beastie, 
O, what a panic's in thy breastie ! 
Thou need na start awa sae hasty, 

Wi' bickering brattle ! 
I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee, 

Wi' murd'ring pattle ! 

I'm truly sorry man's dominion 
Has broken nature's social union, 
An' justifies that ill opinion, 

Which makes thee startle 
At me, thy poor earth-born companion, 

An' fellow-mortal i 

1 doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve ; 
What then ? poor beastie, thou maun live 5 
A daimen icker in a thrave 

'S a sma' request : 
I'll get a'blessin' wi' the lave, 

And never miss't ! 

Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin; 
Its silly wa's the win's are strewin' ! 
Ah' naething, now, to big a new ane, 

O' foggage green ! 
A.n' bleak December's winds ensuin', 

Baith snell and keen I 



Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste, 
An' weary winter comin' fast, 
An' cozie here, beneath the blast, 

Thou thought to dwfilL 
'Till, crash ! the crufl coulter past 

Out thro' thy cell. 

That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble, 
Has cost thee mony a weary nibble ! 
Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble, 

But house or hald, 
To thole the winter's sleety dribble, 

An' cranreuch caidd ! 

But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane, 
In proving foresight may be vain : 
The best laid schemes o' mice an' men, 

Gang aft a-gley, 
An' lea'e us nought but grief and pain, 

For promis'd joy. 

Still thou art blest, compar'd wi' me ! 
The present only toucheth thee : 
But, Och ! I backward cast my e'e, 

On prospects drear ! 
An' forward, tho' I canna see, 

I guess an' fear. 



XXXVII. 
£cotcij 39rinfe. 



«« Giehim strong drink, until he wink, 

That's sinking in despair ; 
An' liquor guid to fire his bluid, 

That's prest wi' grief an' care ; 
There let him bouse, an' deep carouse, 

Wi' bumpers flowing o'er, 
Till he forgets his loves or debts, 

An' minds his griefs no more." 

Solomon's Provkrb, xxxi. 6, 7. 



[" I here enclose you," says Burns, 20 March, 1J86", to nis friend 
Kennedy, " my Scotch Drink ; I hope some time before we hear the 
gowk, to have the pleasure of seeing you at Kilmarnock : when 1 
intend we shall have a gill between us, in a mutchkin stoup."J 



Let other poets raise a fracas 

'Bout vines, an' wines, an' dru'ken Bacchus 

An' crabbit names an' stories wrack us, 

An' grate our lug, 
I sing the juice Scotch bear can mak us, 

In glass or jug. 

O thou, my Muse ! guid auld Scotch drink ; 
Whether thro' wimplin' worms thou jink, 
Or, richly brown, ream o'er the brink, 

In glorious faem, 
Inspire me, till I lisp an' wink, 

To sing thy name ! 



40 



THE P01T1CAL WORKS 



Let husky wheat the haughs adorn, 
An' aits set up their awnie horn, 
An' pease an' beans, at e'en or morn, 

Perfume the plain, 
Leeze me on thee, John Barleycorn, 

Thou king o' grain ! 

On thee aft Scotland chows her cood, 
In souple scones, the wale o' food ! 
Or tumblin' in the boilin' flood 

Wi' kail an' beef; 
But when thou pours thy strong heart's blood, 

There thou shines chief. 



Food fills the wame, an' keeps us livin' ; 
Tho' life's a gift no worth receivin' ; 
When heavy dragg'd wi' pine an' grievin' ; 

But, oil'd by thee, 
The wheels o' life gae down-hill, scrievin* 

Wi' rattlin' glee, 

Thou clears the head o' doited Lear ; 
Thou cheers the heart o' drooping Care ; 
Thou strings the nerves o' Labour sair, 

At 's weary toil ; 
Thou even brightens dark Despair 

Wi' gloomy smile. 

Aft, clad in massy, siller weed, 
Wi' gentles thou erects thy head : 
Yet humbly kind in time o' need, 

The poor man's wino, 
His wee drap parritch, or his bread, 

Thou kitchens fine. 

Thou art the life o' public haunts ; 

But thee, what were our fairs an' rants ! 

Ev'n godly meetings o' the saunts, 

By thee inspir'd, 
When gaping they besiege the tents, 

Are doubly fir'd. 

That merry night we get the corn in, 
O sweetly then thou reams the horn in ! 
Or reekin' on a new-year morning 

In cog or bicker, 
An' just a wee drap sp' ritual burn in, 

An' gusty sucker ! 

When Vulcan gies his bellows breath, 
An' ploughmen gather wi' their graith, 
O rare ! to see thee fizz an' freath 

I' th' lugget caup ! 
Then Burnewin comes on like Death 

At ev'ry chap. 

Nae mercy, then, for airn or steel ; 
The braAvnie, bainie, ploughman chiel, 
Brings hard owrehip, wi' sturdy wheel, 

The sir ong forehammer, 
Till block an' studdie ring an' reel 

Wi' dinsome clamour. 



When skirlin' weanies see the lightj 
Thou maks the gossips clatter bright, 
How fumblin' cuifs their dearies slight i 

Wae worth the name '. 
Nae howdie gets a social night, 

Or plack frae them. 

When neebors anger at a plea, 
An' just as wud as wud can be, 
How easy can the barley-bree 

Cement the quarrel ! 
It's aye the cheapest lawyer's fee, 

To taste the barrel. 

Alake ! that e'er my Muse has reason 
To wyte her countrymen wi' treason ! 
But monie daily weet their weason 

Wi' liquors nice, 
An' hardly, in a winter's season, 

E'er spier her price. 

Wae worth that brandy, burning trash i 
Fell source o' monie a pain an'' brash ! 
Twins monie a poor, doylt, druken hash, 

0' half his days ; 
An' sends, beside, auld Scotland's cash 

To her warst faes. 

Ye Scots, wha wish auld Scotland well, 
Ye chief, to you my tale I tell, 
Poor plackless devils like mysel, 

It sets you ill, 
Wi' bitter, dearthfu' wines to mell, 

Or foreign gill. 

May gravels round his blather wrench, 
An' gouts torment him inch by inch, 
Wha twists his grim tie wi' a glunch 

O' sour disdain, 
Out owre a glass o' whiskey punch 

Wi' honest men ; 

O whiskey ! soul o' plays an' pranks ! 
Accept a Bardie's gratefu' thanks ! 
When wanting thee, what timeless cranks 

Are my poor verses ! 
Thou comes they rattle i' their ranks 

At ither'sa — s ! 

Thee, Ferintosh ! sadly lost ! 
Scotland lament frae coast to coast! 
Now colic grips, an' barkin' hoast, 

May kill us a' ; 
For loyal Forbes' chartered boast, 

Is ta'en awa ! 

Thae curst horse-leeches o' th' Excise, 
Wha mak the whiskey stells their prize ! 
Haud up thy han', Deil ! ance, twice, thrice : 

There, seize the blinkers! 
An' bake them up in brunstane pies 

For poor d — n*d drinkers. 



OF ROlihivT JJUKNS. 



i\ 



Fortune ! if thou'll but gie me st'll 
Hale breeks, a scone, an' whiskey gill. 
An' rowtli o' rhyme to rave at will, 

Tak' a' the rest, 
Au ; deal't about as thy blind skill 

Directs thee best. 



XXXVIII 

THE AUTHOR'S 

lEanugt @rg anti ^rager 

TO THE 

SCOTCH REPRESENTATIVES 

tN THE 

HOUSE OF COMMONS. 

r< Dearest of distillation ! last and best ! 

How art thou lost! " 

Parody on Milton 



[** This Poem was writtea, says Bums, " before the act&nent 
(he Scottish distilleries, of session 1786*. for which Scotland and the 
nutnor return their most jmtefnl thanks." Before the passing of this 
kn.ent act, so sharp was ihc law in the North, that some distillers 
relinquished their trade ; the price of barley was affected, and Scot- 
land, already exasperated at che refusal of a militia, for which she was 
a petitioner, began to handle her claymore, and was perhaps only 
-hindered from drawing it by the act mentioned by the poet In an 
early copy of the poem, he thus alludes to Colonel Hugh M'jnt- 
g-omery, afterwards Earl of Eglinton :— 

" Thee, sodger Hugn, my watchman stented, 
If bardies e'er are represented, 
I ken if that yere sword were wanted 

Ye'd lend yere hand ; 
But when there's aught to say anent it 

Yere at a stand." 

The poet was not sure that Montgomery would think the compli- 
ment to his ready hand an excuse in full for the allusion to bis un- 
ready tongue, and omitted the stanza.] 



Ye Irish lords, ye knights an' squires, 
Wha represent our brughs an' shires, 
An' doucely manage our affairs 

In parliament, 
To you a simple Bardie's prayers 

Are humbly sent. 

Alas ! my roupet Muse is hearse ! 

Your honour's hearts wi' grief 'twad pierce, 

To see her sittin' on her a — e 

Low i' the dust, 
An' scriechin' out prosaic verse, 

An' like to brust t 

Tell them wha hae the chief direction, 
Scotland an' m^'s in great affliction, 
E'er sin' they laid that curst restriction 

On aquavitae ; 
An' muse them up to strong conviction, 

An' move their pity. 



Stand forth, an' tell yon Premier youth. 

The honest, open, naked truth : 

Tell him o' mine an' Scotland's drouth, 

His servants humble : 
The muckle devil blaw ye south, 

If ye dissemble ! 

Does ony great man glunch an' gloom ? 
Speak out, an' never fash your thumb ! 
Let posts an' pensions sink or soom 

Wi' them wha grant r eir; 
If honestly they canna come, 

Far better want 'em. 



In gath'rin votes you were na slack ; 
Now stand as tightly by your tack ; 
Ne'er claw your lug, an' fidge your back, 

An' hum an' haw ; 
But raise your arm, an' tell your crack 

Before them a'. 

Paint Scotland greetin' owre her thrissle, 
Her mutchkin stoup as toom's a whissle ; 
An' damn'd excisemen in a bussle, 

Seizin' a stell, 
Triumphant crushin' t like a mussel 

Or lampit shell 

Then on the tither hand present her, 

A blackguard smuggler, right behint herj 

An' cheek-for-chow, a chuffie vintner, 

Colleaguing join, 
Picking her pouch as bare as winter 

Of a* kind coin. 

Is there, that bears the name o' Scot, 
But feels his heart's bluid rising hot, 
To see his poor auld mither's pot 

Thus dung in staves, 
An' plunder'd o' her hindmost groat 

By gallows knaves 

Alas! I'm but a nameless wight, 

Trode i' the mire out o' sight ! 

But could I like Montgomeries fight, 

Or gab like Boswell, 
There's some sark-necks I wad draw tight, 

An' tie some hose well. 

God bless your honours, can ye see't. 
The kind, auld, cantie carlin greet, 
An* no get warmly on your feet, 

An' gar them hear it ! 
An' tell them with a patriot heat, 

Ye winna bear it ? 

Some o' you nicely ken the laws, 
To round the period an' pause, 
An' wi' rhetoric clause on clause 

To mak harangues ; 
Then echo thro' Saint Stephen's wa's 

Auld Scotland's wraii^i: 



4'2 



FHE POETICAL \VORKS 



Dempster, a true blue Scot 1'se warran'; 
Thee, aith-detesting, chaste Kilkerran ; * 
A.n' that glib-gabbet Highland baron, 

The Laird o' Graham 5 
A.n' ane, a chap that's damn'd auldfarran, 

Dundas his name. 



Erskine, a spunkie Norland billie; 
True Campbells, Frederick an' Hay ; 
An' Livingstone, the bauld Sir Willie: 

An" monie ithers, 
Whom auld Demosthenes or Tully 

Might own for brithers 



A rouse, my boys ! exert your mettle, 
To get auld Scotland back her kettle : 
Or faith ! I'll wad my new pleugh-pettle, 

YeTl see't or lang, 
She'll teach you, wi' a reekin' whittle, 

Anither sang. 



This while she's been in crankous mood, 
Her lost militia fir'd her bluid ; 
(Deil na they never mair do guid, 

Play'd her that pliskie !) 
An' now she's like to rin red-wud 

About her whiskey. 

An' L— d, if ance they pit her till't, 
Tier tartan petticoat she'll kilt, 
An' durk an' pistol at her belt, 

She'll tak the streets, 
An' rin her whittle to the hilt, 

I' th' first she meets ! 

For God sake, sirs, then speak her fair, 
An' straik her cannie wi' the hair, 
An' to the muckle house repair, 

Wi' instant speed, 
An' strive, wi' a' your wit and lear, 

To get reniead. 

Yon ill-tongu'd tinkler, Charlie Fox, 
May taunt you wi' his jeers an' mocks ; 
But gie him't het, my hearty cocks ! 

E'en cowe the cadie ! 
An' send him to his dicing box 

An' sportin' lady. 

Tell yon guid bluid o' a\ild Boconnock's 
I'll be his debt twa mashlum bonnocks, 
An' drink his health in auld Nanse Tinnock's * 

Nine times a-week, 
If ho some scheme, like tea an' winnocks, 

"Wad kindly seek. 



» Sir Adam Ferguson. 
e Tie Duue of Montrose. 
" A nvrthy old hostess of the author's ir. Manchline, where he 
cznetlmtx Ftndirs politics over a plassof guM suld Scotch drink. 



Cotild he some commutation broach, 
I'll pledge my aith in guid braid Scotch, 
lie need na fear their foul reproach 

Nor erudition, 
Yon mixtie-maxtie queer hotch-potel? 

The Coalition. 

Auld Scotland has a raucle tongue; 
She's just a devil wi' a rung ; 
An' if she promise auld or young 

To tak their part. 
Tho' by the neck she should be strung. 

She'll no desert. 

An' now, ye chosen Five-and-Forty, 
May still your mither's heart support ye ; 
Then, though a minister grow dorty, 

An' kick your place, 
Ye'll snap your fingers, poor an' hearty, 

Before his face. 

God bless your honours a' your days. 
Wi' sowps o' kail and brats o' claise, 
In spite o' a' the thievish kaes, 

That haunt St. Jamie's 
Your humble Poet signs an' prays 

While Bab his name is 



^OStgCttpt. 



Let half -starv'd slaves in warmer skies 
See future wines, rich clust'ring, rise 5 
Their lot auld Scotland ne'er envies, 

But blythe and frisky, 
She eyes her freeborn, martial boys 

Tak aff their whiskey. 

What tho' their Phoebus kinder warms, 
While fragrance blooms and beauty charms ! 
When wretches range, in famish'd swarms, 

The scented groves, 
Or hounded forth, dishonour arms 

In hungry droves. 

Their gun's a burden on their shouther ; 
They downa bide the stink o 1 powther; 
Their bauldest thought's a' hank'ring s wither 

To stan' or rin, 
Till skelp — a shot — they're aff, a' throwther 

To save their skin. 



But bring a Scotsman frae his hill, 
Clap in his cheek a Highland gill, 
Say, such is royal George's will, 

An' there's the foe 
lie has nae thought b-jl bow to kill 

Twa at a blow. 







: 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



43 



Nae cauld faint-hearted doublings tease him ; 
Death comes, wi' fearless eye he sees him ; 
Wi' bluidy han' a welcome gies him ; 

An' when he fa's, 
His latest draught o' breathin' lea'es him 

In faint hu2zas ! 

Sages their solemn een may steek, 
An' raise a philosophic reek, 
An' physically causes seek, 

In clime an' season ; 
But tell me whiskey's name in Greek, 

I'll tell the reason. 

Scotland, my auld, respected mither ! 
Tho' whiles ye moistify your leather, 
Till whare ye sit, on craps o' heather 

Ye tine your dam ; 
Freedom and whiskey gang thegither ! — 

Tak aff your dram ! 



XXXIX. 



®t)tw&$ to the WLnto ©utt), 

OR TUB 

RIGIDLY RIGHTEOUS. 



" My son, these maxims make a rule, 
And lump them ay thegither ; 
The Rigid Righteous is a fool, 

The Rigid Wise anlther : 
The cleanest corn that e'er was dight 

May hae some pyles o' caff in ; 
So ne'er a fellow-creature slight 
For random fits o' daffin." 

Solomon.— Eccles. ch. vii. ver. 16. 



I •♦ Burns," says Hogg, in anote on this Poem, " has written more 
rrom his own heart and his own feelings than any other poet. Ex- 
ternal nature had few charms for him ; the sublime shades and hues 
of heaven and earth never excited his enthusiasm : but with the se- 
cret fountains of passion in the human soul he was well acquainted." 
Burns, indeed, was not what is called a descriptive poet : yet with 
what exquisite snatches of description are some of his poems; adorned, 
and in what fragrant and romantic scenes he enshr.nes the heroes 
and heroines of many of his finest songs ! Who the high, exalted, vir- 
tuous dames were, to whom the Poem refers, we are not told. How- 
much men stand indebted to want of opportunity to sin, and how 
much of their good name they owe to the ignorance of the world, 
were inquiries in which the poet found pleasure.] 



O ye wha are sae guid yoursel, 

Sae pious and sae holy, 
Ye've nought to do but mark and tell 

Your ncebours* fauts and folly ! 
Whase life is like a weel-gaun mill, 

Supply' d wi' store o' water, 
The heaped happer'y ebbing still, 

And still the clap plays clatter. 



Hear me, ye venerable core, 

As counsel for poor mortals, 
That frequent pass douce Wisdom's doot 

For glaikit Folly's portals ; 
I, for their thoughtless, careless sakes, 

Would here propone defences, 
Their dousie tricks, their black mistakes, 

Their failiugs and mischances. 



Ye see your state wi' theirs compar'd, 

And shudder at the niffer, 
But cast a moment's fair regard, 

What maks the mighty differ ? 
Discount what scant occasion gave, 

That purity ye pride in, 
And (what's aft mair than a' the lave) 

Your better art o' hiding. 



Think, when your castigated pulse 

Gies now and then a wallop, 
What ragings must his veins convulse, 

That still eternal gallop : 
Wi' wind and tide fair i' your tail, 

Right on ye scud your sea-way ; 
But in the teeth o' baith to sail, 

It makes an unco lee-way. 



See social life and glee sit down, 

All joyous and unthinking, 
*Till, quite transmugrify'd, they're grown 

Debauchery and drinking ; 
O would they stay to calculate 

Th' eternal consequences ; 
Or your more dreaded hell to state, 

D-mnation of expences ! 



Ye high, exalted, virtuous dames, 

Ty'd up in godly laces, 
Before ye gie poor frailty names, 

Suppose a change o' cases ; 
A dear lov'd lad, convenience snug, 

A treacherous inclination — 
But, let me whisper, i' your lug, 

Ye' re aiblins nae temptation. 



Then gently scan your brother man. 

Still gentler sister woman ; 
Though they may gang a kennin' wrong. 

To step aside is human : 
One point must still be greatly dark, 

The moving why they do it : 

And just as lamely can ye mark, 

/How far perhaps they rue it. 



u 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



Who made the heart, 'tis He alone 

Decidedly can try us, 
He knows each chord— its various tone, 

Each spring —its various bias : 
Then at the balance let's be mute, 

We never can adjust it ; 
What's done we partly may compute, 

But know not what's resisted. 



XL. 

' An honest man's the noblest work of God," 



[Tarn Samson was a west country seedsman and sportsman, who 
loved a good song, a social glass, and relished a shot so well that he 
expressed a wish to die and be buried in the moors. On this hint 
Burns wrote the Elegy: when Tarn heard of this he waited on the 
poet, caused him to recite it, and expressed displeasure at being 
numbered with the dead: the author, whose wit was as ready as his 
rhymes, added the Per Contra in a moment, much to the deliyht of his 
friend. At his death the four lines of Epitaph were cut on his grave- 
stone. " This poem has always," says Hogg, «' been a great country 
favourite: it abounds with happy expressions. 



What a picture of a flooded burn ! any other poet would hare given 
us a long description : Burns dashes it down at once in a style so gra- 
phic no one can mistake it. 

' Perhaps upon his mouldering breast 
Some spkefu' moorfowl bigs her nest.' 

Match that sentence who can."] 



Has auld Kilmarnock seen the deil ? 
Or great M'Kinlay 2 thrawn his heel ? 
Or Robinson 3 again grown weel, 

To preach an' read ? 
" Na, waur than a' !" cries ilka duel, 

Tarn Samson "s dead ! 

Kilmarnock lang may grunt an' grane, 

An' sigh, an' sab, an' greet her lane, 

An' deed her bairns, man, wife, an' wean, 

In mourning weed ; 
To death, she's dearly paid the kane, 

Tarn Samson's dead ! 

The brethren o' the mystic level 
May hing their head in woefu' bevel, 
While by their nose the tears will revel, 

Like ony bead ; 
Death's gien the lodge an unco devel, 

Tain Samson's dead ! 



h* 



When this worthy old sportsman went out last muirfowl season, 

i-ippnseri it was to be, in Ossian's phrase, *• the last of his fields." 

* preacher, a great favourite witli the million. Vide the Ordi- 

*.n !!. 

' An *thrt preacher, an equal favourite with the few, who \v.", at 

A-ti liaw ailiric for mm scealao the Ordinntion, ruuua IX 



When Winter muffles up his cloak, 
And binds the mire like a rock ; 
When to the lochs the curlers flock, 

Wi' gleesome speed. 
Wha will they station at the cock ? 

Tarn Samson's dead I 

He was the king o' a' the core, 
To guard, or draw, or wick a bore, 
Or up the rink like Jehu roar 

In time o' need ; 
But now he lags on death's hog-score, 

Tam Samson's dead ! 

Now safe the stately sawmont sail, 
And trouts be-dropp'd wi' crimson hail, 
And eels weel ken'd for souple tail, 

And geds for greed a 
Since dark in death's fish-creel we wail 

Tam Samson dead I 

Rejoice, ye birring patricks a' ; 

Ye cootie moorcocks, crousely craw ; 

Ye maukins cock your fud fu' braw, 

Withouten dread ; 
Your mortal fae is now awa', 

Tam Samson's dead i 

That woefu' morn be ever mourn'd 
Saw him in shootin' graith adorn 'd 
While pointers round impatient bura'd, 

Frae couples freed ; 
But, Och ! he gaed and ne'er return'd ! 

Tam Samson's dead ! 

In vain auld age his body batters ; 

In vain the gout his ancles fetters ; 

In vain the burns cam' down like waters, 

An acre braid ! 
Now ev'ry auld wife, greetin', clatters, 

Tam Samson's dead i 

Owre many a weary hag he limpit,. 
An' ay the tither shot he thumpit, 
Till coward death behind him jumpit, 

Wi' deadly feide : 
Now he proclaims, wi' tout o' trumpet, 

Tam Samson's dead f 

When at his heart he felt the dagger, 
He reel'd his wonted bottle swagger, 
But yet he drew the mortal trigger 

Wi' weel-aim'd heed ; 
" L — d, five !" he cry'd, an' owre did stagger; 

Tam Samson's dead ! 

Ilk hoary hunter mourn'd a brither ; 
Ilk sportsman youth bemoan'd a father ; 
Yon auld grey stane, amang the heather, 

Marks out his head, 
WJ>are Burns has wrote, in rhyming, blether 

Tam Samson's dead J 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



45 



There low he lies, iu lasting rest ; 
1'erhaps upon his mould'ring breast 
Some spitefu' muirfovvl bigs her nest, 

To hatch an' breed ; 
Alas ! nae mair he'll them molest ! 

Tam Samson's dead ! 

When August winds the heather wave, 
And sportsmen wander by yon grave, 
Three volleys let his mem'ry crave 

O' pouther an' lead, 
'Till Echo answer frae her cave 

Tam Samson's dead I 

Heav'n rest his soul, whare'er he be ! 
Is th' wish o' mony mae than me ; 
He had twa fauts, or maybe three, 

Yet what remead ? 
Ae social, honest man want we: 

Tam Samson's dead ! 



lEpttapf). 

Tam Samson's weel worn clay here lies, 
Ye canting zealots spare him ! 

K honest worth in heaven rise, 
Ye'll mend or ye win near him. 



^u ©cmtra. 

Go, Fame, an' canter like a filly 
Thro' a' the streets an' neuks o' Killie,' 
Tell ev'ry social honest billie 

To cease his grievm', 
For yet, unskaith'd by death's gleg gullie, 

Tam Samson's livin'. 



XLT. 

Xament, 

OCCASIONED BY THE UNFORTUNATE ISSUE 

OF A 

friend's amour. 

" Alas ! how oft does goodness wound itself! 
And sweet affection prove the spring of woe." 

Home. 

["The hero and heroine of this little mournful poem, were Itobert 
Gums and Jean Armour. " This was a most melancholy affair," says 
fijepoet in his letter to Moore, " which 1 cannot yet bear to reflect 
mi, and had very nearly given me one or two of the principal qua- 
lifications for a place among those who have lost the chart and mis- 
taken the reckoning of rationality." Hogg and Motherwell, with an 
j.'norance which is easier to laugh at than account for, say this 
Piiem was "written on the occasion of Alexander Cunningham's 
darling sweetheart slighting him and marrying another :— she 
acted a wise part." With what care they had read the great poet 
Whom they jointly edited it is needless to say : and how they could 
read the last two lines of the third verse, and commend the lady's 
wisaom for slighting her lover, seems a problem winch defies defini- 
tion. This mistake was pointed out by a friend, and corrected in a 
second issue of the volume.] 



t hou pale orb, that silent shines, 
While care-untroubled mortals sleep ! 



Thou seest a wretch who inly pines. 
And wanders here to wail and weep ! 

With woe I nightly vigils keep, 

Beneath thy wan, unwarming beam, 

And mourn, in lamentation deep, 
How life and love are all a dream. 



I joyless view thy rays adorn 

The faintly marked distant hill 
I joyless view thy trembling horn, 

Iteflected in the gurgling rill : 
My fondly-fluttering heart, be still! ' 

Thou busy pow'r, remembrance, cease I 
Ah ! must the agonizing thrill 

For ever bar returning peace ! 



No idly-feign'd poetic pains, 

My sad, love-lorn larnentings claim; 
No shepherd's pipe — Arcadian strains; 

No fabled tortures, quaint and tame 
The plighted faith; the mutual flame; 

The oft-attested Pow'rs above ; 
The promis'd father's tender name; 

These were the pledges of my love ! 



Encircled in her clasping arms, 

How have the raptur'd moments flown I 
How have I wish'd for fortune's charms, 

For her dear sake, and her's alone ! 
And must I think it ! — is she gone, 

My secret heart's exulting boast ? 
And does she heedless hear my groan ? 

And is she ever, ever lost ? 



Oh ! can she bear so base a heart, 

So lost to honour, lost to truth, 
As from the fondest lover part, 

The plighted husband of her youth ! 
Alas ! life's path may be unsmooth ! 

Her way may lie thro' rough distress ? 
Then, who her pangs and pains will soothe 

Her sorrows share, and make them less 



Ye winged hours that o'er us past 

Enraptur'd more the more enjoy'd. 
Your dear remembrance in my breast, 

My fondly-treasur'd thoughts employ' d 
That breast, how dreary now, and void, 

For her too scanty once of room ! 
Ev'n ev'ry ray of hope destroyed, 

And not a wish to gild the gloom ! 



The morn that warns th* approaching da\ 
Awakes me up to toil and woe r 



4tf 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



I see the hours in long array, 
That I must suffer, lingering slow. 

Full many a pang, and many a throe, 
Keen recollection's direful train, 

Must wring my soul, ere Phoebus, low, 
Shall kiss the distant, western main. 



And when my nightly couch. I try, 

Sore-harass'd out with care and grief, 
My toil-heat nerves, and tear-worn eye, 

Keep watchings with the nightly thief: 
Or if I slumber, fancy, chief, 

Reigns haggard-wild, in sore affright : 
Ev'n day, all-bitter, brings relief, 

From such a horror-breathing night. 



O ! thou bright queen, who o'er th' expanse 

Now highest reign'st, with boundless sway ! 
Oft has thy silent-marking glance 

Observ'd us, fondly-wand'ring, stray ! 
The time, unheeded, sped away, 

While love's luxurious pulse beat high, 
Beneath thy silver-gleaming ray, 

To mark the mutual kindling eye. 



Oh ! scenes in strong remembrance set ! 

Scenes never never to return ! 
Scenes, if in stupor I forget, 

Again I feel, again I burn ! 
From ev'ry joy and pleasure torn, 

Life's weary vale I'll wander thro'; 
And hopeless, comfortless, I'll mourn 

A faithless woman's broken vow. 



XLII. 



[" I hink,"sfiid Burns, " it is one of thegreate3t pleasures attend- 
ii •;,' a poetic genius, that we can give ou- woes, cares, joys, and 
loves an embodied form in verse, which to me is ever immediate 
tftse." He elsewhere says, "My passions rRgcd like so many devik 
rill they got vent in rhyme." That eminent painter, Fuseli, on see- 
ing his wife in a passion, said composedly, " Swear, my love, 
near heartily: you know not how much it will case you !" This 
poem was printed in the Kilmarnock edition, and gives a trucpic- 
ture of those bitter moments exijerlenced by the hard, when love and 
fortune alike deceived him] 



0?phess'd with grief, oppress'd with care, 
' burden more than I can hew. 



I set me down and sigh. : 
O life ! thou art a galling load, 
Along, a rough a weary road, 

To wretches such as I ! 
Dim-backward as I cast my view, 
"What sickening scenes appear : 
What sorrows yet may pierce me thro' 
Too justly I may fear ! 
Still caring, despairing, 

Must be my bitter doom : 

My woes here shall close ne'er 

But with the closing tomb ' 



Happy, ye sons of busy life, 
Who, equal to the bustling strife, 

No other view regard ! 
Ev'n when the wished end's deny'd, 
Yet while the busy means are ply'd, 

They bring their own reward : 
Whilst I, a hope-abandon'd wight. 

Unfitted with an aim, 
Meet ev'ry sad returning night 
And joyless morn the same ; 
You, bustling, and justling, 

Forget each grief and pain ; 
I, listless, yet restless, 
Find every prospect vain. 



How blest the solitary's lot, 
Who, all-forgetting, all-forgot, 

Within his humble cell, 
The cavern wild with tangling roots, 
Sits o'er his newly-gather'd- fruits, 

Beside his crystal well ! 
Or, haply, to his ev'ning thought, 

By unfrequented stream, 
The ways of men are distant brought, 
A faint collected dream ; 
While praising, and raising 

His thoughts to heav'n on higli, 
As wand'ring, meand'ring, 
He views the solemn sky. 



Than I, no lonely herm it plac'd 
Where never human footstep trae'd, 

Less fit to play the part ; 
The lucky moment to improve. 
And j-ust to stop, and just to move, 

With self-respecting art : 
But, ah ! those pleasures, loves, and joys, 

Which I too keenly taste. 
The solitary can despise, 

Can want, and yet be bh>st! 
He needs not, he heeds not, 

Or human love or hate, 
Whilst 1 here, must cry here 
At perfidy ingrate ! 






OF hOBEKT BURNS. 



47 



Oli ! enviable, early days. 

When dancing thoughtless pleasure's maze, 

To care, to guilt unknown ! 
How ill exchang'd for riper times, 
To feel the follies, or the crimes, 

Of others, or my own ! 
Ye tiny elves that guiltless sport, 

Like linnets in the bush, 
Ye little know the ills ye court, 
When manhood is your wish ! 
The losses, the crosses, 

That active man engage ! 
The fears all, the tears all. 
Of dim declining age ! 



XLTII. 



©ottu-'g jfeaturfca|) Ktght. 

INSCRIBED TO ROBERT AIKEN, ESQ. 

" Let not ambition mock their useful toil, 
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure : 
Nor grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile, 
The short and simple annals of the poor." 

Gray. 

[The house of William Burns was the scene of this fine, devout, 
and tranquil drama, and William himself was the saint, the father, 
and the husband, who gives life and sentiment to the whole. " Robert 
had frequently remarked to me," says Gilbert Burns, '"'that he 
thought there was something peculiarly venerable in the phrase, 
♦ Let us worship God !' used by a decent, sober head of a family, in- 
troducing family worship." To this sentiment of the author the 
world is indebted for the " Cotter's Saturday Night." He owed some 
little, however, of the inspiration to Fergusson's " Farmer's Ingle," a 
poem of great merit. The calm tone and holy composure of the Cot- 
ter's Saturday Night have been mistaken by Hogg for want of nerve 
and life. " It is a dull, heavy, lifeless poem, "he says, "and the only 
beauty it possesses, in my estimation, is, that it is a sort of family pic- 
ture of the poet's family. The worst thing of all, it is not original, 
but is a decided imitation of Fergusson's beautiful pastoral, ' Th« 
Farmer's Ingle:' 1 have a perfect contempt for all plagiarisms and 
imitations." Motherwell tries to qualify the censure of his brother 
editor, by quoting Lock hart's opinion — at once lofty and just, of this 
fine picture of domestic happiness and devotion.] 



My lov'd, my honour' d, much respected 
friend ! 
No mercenary bard his homage pays ; 
With honest pride, I scorn each selfish end : 
My dearest meed, a friend's esteem and 
praise : 
To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays, 

The lowly train in life's sequester'd scene ; 
The native feelings strong, the guileless ways ; 
What Aiken in a cottage would have been ; 
Ah ! tho' his worth unknown, far happier there, 
I ween ! 



November chill blaws loud \vi' angry sugh ; 
The short 'ning winter-day is near a close ; 



The miry beasts retreating frae the plough: 
The blackening trains o' craws to their 
repose : 
The toil-worn Cotter frae his labour goes, 
This night his weekly moil is at an end, 
Collects his spades, his mattocks, and hie 
hoes, 
Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend. 
And weary, o'er the moor, his course does 
hameward bend. 



At length his lonely cot appears in view, 

Beneath the shelter of an aged tree ; 
Th' expectant wee-things, toddlin, stacher 
thro' 
To meet their Dad, wi' flichterin noise an ' 
glee. 
His wee bit ingle, blinkin' bonnily, 

His clean hearth-stane, his thriftie Wifie's 
smile, 
The lisping infant prattling on his knee, 
Does a' his weary kiaugh and care beguile, 
An' makes him quite forget his labour and his 
toil. 



Belyve, the elder bairns come drapping in, 

At service out, amang the farmers roun' : 
Some ca' the pleugh, some herd, some tentie 
rin 
A cannie errand to a neebor town : 
Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman grown, 
In youthfu' bloom, love sparkling in her 
e'e, 
Comes hame, perhaps to shew a braw new 
gown, 
Or deposite her sair-won penny-fee, 
To help her parents dear, if they in hardship b". 



With joy unfeign'd, brothers and sisters 

meet, 

An' each for other's welfare kindly spiers : 

The social hours, swift-wing' d unnotie'd fleet 

Each tells the unco's that he sees or hears ; 

The parents, partial, eye their hopeful yeais ; 

Anticipation forward points the view. 
The Mother, wi' her needle an' her sheers. 
Gars auld claes look amaist as weel's tbe 
new; — 
The Father mixes a' wi' admonition due. 



Their master's an' their mistress's command, 
The younkers a' are warned to obey,* 

And mind their labours wi' an eydent hand, 
Jin' ne'er, tho' out o' sight, to jauk or play; 
And O ! be sure to fear the Lord alwa\ » 



4N 



THE POETICAL WOliB.8 



And mind your duty, duly, morn and night! 
Lost in temptation's path ye gang astray, 
Implore His counsel and assisting might : 
They never sought in vain, that sought the 
Lord aright !" 



But, hark! a rap comes gently to the door; 

Jenny, vha kens the meaning o' the same, 
Tells how a neebor lad cam o'er the moor, 

To do some errands, and convoy her hame. 
The wily Mother sees the conscious flame 

Sparkle in Jenny's e'e, and flush her cheek, 
"With heart-struck anxious care, inquires his 
name, 
"While Jenny hafflins is afraid to speak ; 
Weel pleas'd the Mother hears, it's nae wild, 
worthless rake. 



Wi' kindly welcome, Jenny brings him ben ; 
A strappan youth; he taks the Mother's 
eye; 
Ely the Jenny sees the visit's no ill ta'en ; 
The Father cracks of horses, pleughs, and 
kye. 
The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi' joy, 
But blate, an laithfu', scarce can weel 
behave ; 
The Mother, wi' a woman's wiles, can spy 
What makes the youth sae bashfu' and sae 
grave ; 
Weel pleas'd to think her bairn's respected like 
the lave. 



happy love ! where love like this is found ! 
O heart-felt raptures ! — bliss beyond com- 
pare ! 
I've paced much this weary, mortal round, 

And sage experience bids me this declare — 
" If heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure 
spare, 
One cordial in this melancholy vale, 
'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair 
In other's arms, breathe out the tender tale, 
Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the 
ev'ning gale." 



Is there, in human form, that bears a heart — 
A wretch ! a villain ! lost to love and truth ! 
That can, with studied, sly, ensnaring art, 

Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting youth ? 
Curse on his perjur'd arts ! dissembling 
smooth ! 
Are honour, virtue, conscience, all exil'd ? 
Is there no pity, no relenting ruth, 

Points to the parents fondling o'er their 
child ? 
Then paints the rnin'd maid, and their distrac- 
tion wild ? 



But now the supper crowns their simple board, 
The halesome parritch, chief of Scotia '8 
food: 
The soupe their only hawkie does afford, 
That 'yont the hallan snugly chows her 
cood : 
The dame brings forth, in complimental 
mood, 
To grace the lad, her weel-hain'd kebbuck, 
fell, 
An' aft he's prest, an' aft he ca's it guid ; 
The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell, 
How 'twas a towmond auld, sin' lint was i' the 
bell. 



The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face, 

They, round the ingle, form a circle wide ; 
The Sire turns o'er, with patriarchal grace, 

The big ha' -Bible, ance his father's pride ; 
His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside, 

His lyart haffets wearing thin an' bare ; 

Those strains that once did sweet in Zion 

glide, 

He wales a portion with judicious care ; 

And i Let us worship God !' he says, with so* 

lemn air. 



They chant their artless notes in simple guise: 
They tune their hearts, by far the noblest 
aim : 
Perhaps Dundee's wild-warbling measures 
rise, 
Or plaintive Martyrs, worthy of the name ; 
Or noble Elgin beets the heaven-ward flame, 

The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays : 
Compar'd with these, Italian trills are tame ; 
The tickl'd ear no heart-felt raptures raise: 
Nae unison hae they with our Creator's praise. 

XIV. 

The priest-like Father reads the sacred page, 
How Abram was the friend of God on 
high ; 
Or, Moses bade eternal warfare wage 

With Amalek's ungracious progeny ; 
Or how the royal bard did groaning lie 

Beneath the stroke of Heaven's avenging 
ire ; 
Or Job's pathetic plaint, and wailing cry ; 
Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire ; 
Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre. 



Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme, 
How guiltless blood for guilty man was 
shed ; 
How He, who bore in Heaven the second 
name, 
Had not on earth whereon to lay His head, 




" 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



49 



Hew ilis first followers and servants sped. 
The precepts sage they wrote to many a 
land : 
How he, who lone in Patmos banished, 
Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand ; 
And heard great Bab'lon's doom pronoune'd by 
Heaven's command. 



Then kneeling down, to Heaven's eternal 
King, 
The Saint, the Father, and the Husband 
prays : 
Hope i springs exulting on triumphant wing,' l 
That thus they all shall meet in future days : 
There ever bask in uncreated rays, 

No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear, 
Together hymning their Creator's praise, 
In such society, yet still more dear : 
While circling Time moves round in an eternal 
sphere. 



Compar'd with this, how poor Religion's 
pride, 
In all the pomp of method and of art, 
When men display to congregations wide, 

Devotion's ev'ry grace, except the heart ! 
The pow'r, incens'd, the pageant will desert, 

The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole ; 
But, haply, in some cottage far apart, 

May hear, well pleas'd, the language of the 
soul; 
And in His book of life the inmates poor enrol. 



Then homeward all take off their sev'ral way; 

The youngling cottagers retire to rest : 
Their Parent-pair their secret homage pay, 
And proffer up to Heaven the warm re- 
quest, 
That He, who stills the raven's clam'rous 
nest, 
And decks the lily fair in flow'ry pride, 
Would, in the Avay His wisdom sees the best, 
For them and for their little ones provide ; 
But, chiefly, in their hearts with grace divine 
preside. 



From scenes like these, old Scotia's grandeur 
springs, 
That makes her lov'd at home, rever'd 
abroad : 
Princes and lords are but the breath of kings, 
" An honest man's the noblest work of 
God ;" l 
And certes, in fair virtue's heav'nly road, 

The cottage leaves the palace far behind ; 
What is a lordling's pomp ? a cumbrous load, 
Disguising oft the wretch of human kind, 
fciudied in arts of Hell, in wickedness refin'd ! 



O Scotia ; my dear, my native soil ! 

For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is 
sent ! 
Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil, 

Be blest with health, ana peace, and sweet 
content ! 
And, O ! may heaven their simple lives pre- 
vent 
From luxury's contagion, wealc and vile ! 
Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent, 
A virtuous populace mav nsu the while, 
And stand a wall of fire around their much- 
lov'd Isle. 



O Thou ! who pour'd the patriotic tide 

That stream'd through Wallace's undaunted 
heart : 
Who dar'd to nobly stem tyrannic pride, 
Or nobly die, the second glorious part, 
(The patriot's God, peculiarly thou art, 

His friend, inspirer, guardian, and re- 
ward!) 
O never, never, Scotia's realm desert ; 

But still the patriot, and the patriot bard, 
In bright succession raise, her ornament and 
guard ! 



XLIV 



[Thu version was first printed in the second edition of the poet's 
works. It cannot be regarded as one of his happiest compositions : it 
is inferior, not indeed in ease, but in simplicity and antique vigour of 
language, to the common version used in the Kirk of Scotland. Hums 
had admitted " Death and Dr. Hornbook" into Creech's edition, and 
probably desired to balance it with something at which the devout 
could not cavil.] 



The man, in life wherever plac'd, 

Hatli happiness in store, 
Who walks not in the wicked's way 

Nor learns their guilty lore ! 

Nor from the seat of scornful pride 
Casts forth his eyes abroad, 

But with humility and awe 
Still walks before his God. 



That man shall flourish like the treee 
Which by the streamlets grow ; 

The fruitful top is spread on high, 
And firm the root below. 



SU 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



But he whose blossom buds in guilt 
Shall to the ground be cast, 

And, like the rootless stubble, tost 
Before the sweeping blast. 

For why ? that God the goc i adore 
Ha*h giv'n them peace and rest, 

But hath decreed that wicked men 
Ishall ne'er be truly blest. 



XLV 

Ef)e fi'm .Six Vcx$t& 

OF THK 

Jituetuti} ^salm. 



[The ninetieth Psalm is said to have been a favourite in the house- 
hold of William Burns : the version used by the Kirk, though une- 
qual, contains beautiful verses, and possesses the same strain of senti- 
ment and moial reasoning as the poem of" Man was made to Mourn." 
These verses first appeared in the Edinburgh edition; and rhey might 
have been spared ; for in the hands of a poet ignorant of the original 
language of the l\almist, how could they be so correct in sense and 
expression as in a sacred strain is not only desirable but necessary ?] 



O Thotj, the first, the greatest friend 

Of all the human race ! 
Whose strong right hand has ever been 

Their stay and dwelling place ! 

Before the mountains heav'd their heads 

Beneath Thy forming hand, 
Before this ponderous glc«>e itself 

Arose at Thy command j 

That Pow'r which rais'd and still upholds 

This universal frame, 
From countless, unbeginning time 

Was ever still the same. 

Those mighty periods of years 

Which seem to us so vast, 
Appear no more before Thy sight 

Than yesterday that's past. 

Thou giv'st the word : Thy creature, man, 

Is to existence brought; 
Again Thou say'st, c Ye sons of men, 

Return ye into nought !" 

Thou layest them, witli all their cares. 

In everlasting sleep ; 
As with a flood Thou tak'st them off 

With overwhelming sweep. 

They flourish like the morning flow'r, 

In beauty's pride array'd ; 
But loug ere night, cut down, it lies 

AU wither'd and decay' d. 



XL VI. 
^o a i^tountafn Itafeg, 

ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOUGH IN 
APRIL, 1786. 



[This was not the original title of this sweet poem : I have a copy 
In the hand-writing of Burns entitled " The Gowan." This more 
natural name he changed as he did his own, without reasonable cause; 
and he changed it about the same time, for he ceased to call himself 
Burness and his poem " The Gowan," in the first edition of hit 
works. The field at Mossgiel where he turned down the Daisy is saio 
to be the same field where some five months before he turned up the 
Mouse; but this seems likely only to those who are little acquainted 
with tillage— who think that in time and place reside' the chief 
charms of verse ; and who feel not the beauty of " The Daisy," till 
they seek and find the spot on which it grew. Sublime morali'y 
and the deepest emotions of the soul pass for little with those who 
remember only what genius loves to forget.] 



Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r, 
Thou's met me in an evil hour; 
For I maun crush amang the stoure 

Thy slender stem « 
To spare thee now is past my pow'r, 

Thou bonnie gem. 

Alas ! it's no thy neebor sweet, 
The bonnie lark, companion meet ! 
Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet ! 

Wi' spreckl'd breast, 
When upward-springing, blythe, to greet, 

The purpling east. 

Cauld blew the bitter-biting north 
Upon thy early, humble birth ; 
Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth 

Amid the storm, 
Scarce rear'd above the parent earth 

Thy tender form. 

The flaunting flowers our gardens yield, 
High shelt'ring woods and wa's maun shieldj 
But thou, beneath the random bield 

0' clod or stane, 
Adorns the histie stibble-field, 

Unseen, alane. 

There, in thy scanty mantle clad, 
Thy snawie bosom sunward spread, 
Thou lifts thy unassuming head 

In humble guise 
But now the share uptears thy bed, 

And low thou lies ! 

Such is the fate of artless maid, 
^ weet flow'ret of the rural shade ! 
By love's simplicity betray'd. 

And guileless Lniat, 
'Till she, like thee, all soii'd, is kid 

Low i' the dust. 






OF KoRKKT BURNS. 



ft! 



Buch is the fate of simple bard, 

Un life's rough ocean luckless starr'd ! 

Unskilful he to uote the card 

Of prudent lore, 
'Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, 

And whelm him o'er ! 

Such fate to suffering worth is giv'n, 

Who long with wants and woes has striv'n, 

By human pride or cunning driv'n 

To mis'ry's brink, 
Till wrench'd of ev'ry stay but Heav'n, 

He, ruin'd, sink ! 

Ev'n thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate, 
That fate is thine — no distant date ; 
Stern Ruin's ploughshare drives, elate, 

Full on thy bloom, 
Till cjush'd beneath the furrow's weight, 

Shall be thy doom! 



XLVII 
pigil? to a ¥oung Jfnenfc. 

May, 178G. 



[Andrew Alk<?n , to whom this poem of good counsel is addressed, 
was one of the sons of Robert Aiken, writer in Ayr, to whom the 
Cotter's Saturday Night is inscribed. He became a merchant in Liver- 
pool, with what success we are not informed, and died at St. Peters- 
I'urgh. The poet has been charged with a desire to teach hypocrisy 
rather than truth to his " Andrew dear ;" but surely to conceal ones 
own thoughts and discover those of others, can scarcely be called hy- 
pocritical: it is, in fact, a version of the celebrated precept of pru- 
dence, " Thoughts close and looks loose." Whether he profited by all 
the counsel sh nvered upon him by the muse we know not: he was 
much respected— his name embalmed, like that of his father, in 
tfcepoetrv of his frier.d, is not likely soon to perish.J 



I lang hae thought, my youthfu' friend, 

A something to have sent you, 
Though it should serve nae ither end 

Than just a kind memento ; 
But how the subject-theme may gang, 

Let time and chance determine ; 
Perhaps it may turn out a sang. 

Perhaps, turn out a sermon. 



Ye'll try the world soon, my lad, 

And, Andrew dear, believe me, 
Ye'll find mankind an unco squad, 

And muckle they may grieve ye : 
For care and trouble set your thought, 

Ev'n when your end's attained ; 
And a' your views may come to nought, 

Where ev'ry nerve is strained. 



I'll no say men are villains a' ; 

The real, hardened wicked, 
Wha hae nae check but human law, 

Are to a few 1 estricked ; 
But, och ! mankind are unco weak, 

An' little to be trusted ; 
If self the wavering balance shake, 

It's rarely right adjusted ! 



Yet they wlia fa' in Fortune's strife, 

Their fate we should na censure, 
For still th' important end of life 

They equally may answer ; 
A man may hae an honest heart, 

Tho' poortith hourly store him ; 
A man may tak a neebor's part, 

Yet hae nae cash to spare him. 



Ay free, aff han' your story tell, 

When wi 1 a bosom crony ; 
But still keep something to yoursel 

Ye scarcely tell to ony. 
Conceal yoursel as weel's ye can 

Frae critical dissection ; 
But keek thro' ev'ry other man, 

Wi' sharpen'd, sly inspection. 



The sacred lowe o' weel-plac'd love 

Luxuriantly indulge it ; 
But never tem.pt th' illicit rove, 

Tho' naething should divulge it r 
I waive the quantum o' the sin, 

The hazard of concealing ; 
But, och ! it hardens a' within, 

And petrifies the feeling ! 



To catch dame Fortune's golden 6mil<? 

Assiduous wait upon her ; 
And gather gear by ev'ry wile 

That's justified by honour ; 
Not for to hide it in a hedge, 

Nor for a train-attendant; 
But for the glorious privilege 

Of being independent. 



The fear o' Hell's a hangman's whip 

To haud the wretch in order ; 
But where ye feel your honour grip, 

Let that ay be your border : 
Its slighest touches, instant pause — 

Debar a' siae pretences ; 
And resolutely keep its laws, 

Uncaring con^equencea. 






62 



THE POETICAL WOItKS 



The great Creator to revere 

Must sure become the creature; 
But. still the preaching cant forbear, 

And ev'n the rigid feature : 
Yet ne'er with wits profane to range, 

Be complaisance extended ; 
An Atheist laugh's a poor exchange 

For Deity offended ! 



When ranting round in pleasure's ring, 

Religion may be blinded ; 
Or if she gie a random sting, 

It may be little minded; 
But when on life we're tempest-driv'n, 

A conscience but a canker — 
A correspondence fix'd wi' Heav'n 

Is sure a noble anchor ! 



Adieu, dear, amiable youth ! 

Your heart can ne'er be wanting ! 
May prudence, fortitude, and truth 

Erect your brow undaunting ! 
In ploughman phrase, " God send you 

Still daily to grow wiser: 
And may you better reck the rede 

Than ever did th' adviser ! 



XL VIII 

ON SEEING ONE ON A LADY'S BONNET, AT 
CHURCH. 



[A Mauchline incident of a Mauchline lady is related in this poem, 
which to many of the softer friends of the bard was anything but 
welcome : it appeared in the Kilmarnock copy of his Poems, and 
remonstrance and persuasion were alike tried in vain to keep it out of 
the Edinburgh edition. Instead of regarding it as a seasonable re- 
buke to pride and vanity, some of his learned commentators called it 
coarse and vulgar— those classic persons might have remembered 
that Julian, no vulgar person, but an emperor and a scholar, wore a 
populous beard, and was proud of it.] 



ITa ! whare ye gaun ye crowlin ferlie 1 
Your impudence protects you sairly : 
I canna say but ye strunt rarely, 

Owre gauze and lace ; 
TIio' faith, I fear, ye dine but sparely 

On sic a place. 

Ye ugly, creepin', blastit wonner, 
Detested, shuun'd, by saunt an' sinner, 
How dare you set your fit upon her, 

Sae fine a lady ! 
(rae somewhere else^and seek your dinner 

On some poor body. 



Swith, in some beggar's hafFet squattle; 
There ye may creep, and sprawl, and sprattk 
Wi' ither kindred, jumping cattle, 

In shoals and nations ; 
Whare horn nor bane ne'er daur unsettle 

Your thick plantations. 

Now haud you there, ye're out o' sight, 
Below the fatt'rells, snug an' tight ; 
Na, faith ye yet ! ye'll no be right 

'Till ye've got on it, 
The vera tapmost, tow'ring height 

O' Miss's bonnet. 

My sooth ! right bauld ye set your nose cut, 
As plump an gray as onie grozet; 
O for some rank, mercurial rozet, 

Or fell, red smeddum, 
I'd gie you sic a hearty doze o't, 

Wad dress your droddum ' 



I wad na been surpris'd to spy 
You on an auld wife's flainen toy ; 
Or aiblins some bit duddie boy, 

On's wyliecoat ; 
But Miss's fine Lunardi ! fie 1 

How daur ye do't ? 

0, Jenny, dinna toss your head, 
An' set your beauties a' abread ! 
Ye little ken what cursed speed 

The blastie's makin' 
Thae winks and finger-ends, I dread, 

Are notice takin' ! 






O wad some Power the <giftie gie us 

To see oursels as others see us ! 

It wad frae monie a blunder free us 

An' foolish notion ; 
What airs in dress an' gait wad lea'e lie, 

And ev'n devotion! 



XLIX. 
<£pUtle to % iftan&tnp, 

INCLOSING SOME POEMS. 



[The person to whom these verses are addressed lived at Adam- 
hill in Ayrshire, and merited the praise of rough and ready-witted, 
which the poem bestows. The humourous dream alluded to, was re- 
lated by way of rebuke to a west country earl, who was in the habitol 
calling all people of low degree "Brutes ! — damned brutes." "I dreamed 
that ! was dead," said the rustic satirist to his superior, and " con- 
demned for the company I kept When 1 came to hell-door, where 
mony of your lordships friends gang, I chappit, and « Wha are ye, 
and where d'ye come frae ?' Satan exclaimed. I just said, that 
my name was Hankine, and I came frae yere lordship's land. ' Aws 
\vr you,' cried Satan ; ' ye canna come here: hell's fou o' hlJ T.otd- 
ship's damned brutes already.' "J 



O rough, rude, ready-witted Rankine, 
The wale o' cocks for fun an' drinkin' ! 



OF ROBERT Bl RNS 



53 



There's monie godly folks are thinkin', 

Your dreams 1 an' tricks 

Will send you, Korah-like, a-sinkin', 

Straught to auld Nick's. 

Ye hae sae monie cracks an' cants, 
And in your wicked, druken rants, 
Ye mak a devil o' the saunts, 

An' fill them fou ; 
And then their failings, flaws, an' wants, 

Are a' seen through. 

Hypocrisy, in mercy spare it ! 

That holy robe, O dinna tear it ! 

Spare' t for their sakes wha aften wear it, 

The lads in black ! 
But your curst wit, when it comes near it, 

Rives' t aff their back. 

Think, wicked sinner, wha ye 're skaithing, 
It's just the blue-gown badge an' claithing 
0' saunts; tak that, ye lea'e them naething 

To ken them by, 
."Frae ony unregenerate heathen, 

Like you or I. 

I've sent you here some rhyming ware, 
A' that I bargain' d for, an' mair ; 
Sae, when you hae an hour to spare, 

I will expect 
Yon sang, 2 ye '11 sen 't wi' cannie care, 

And no neglect. 

Tho' faith, sma' heart hae I to sing ! 
My muse dow scarcely spread her wing ' 
I've play'd mysel a bonnie spring, 

An' dane'd my fill • 
I'd better gaen an' sair't the king, 

At Bunker's Hill. 

'Twas ae night lately, in my fun, 

I gaed a roving wi' the gun, 

An 1 brought a paitrick to the grun', 

A bonnie hen, 
And, as the twilight was begun, 

Thought nane Avad ken. 

The poor wee thing was little hurt ; 

I straikit it a wee for sport, 

Ne'ei thinkin' they wad fash me for't ; 

But, deil-ma-care ! 
Somebody tells the poacher-court 

The hale affair. 

Some auld, us'd hands had taen a note, 
That sic a hen had got a shot ; 
1 was suspected for the plot ; 

I scorn' d to lie ; 
So gat the whissle o' my groat, 

An' pay't the fee. 



But, by my gun, o' guns the wale, 
An 1 by my pouther an' my haiL 
An' by my hen, an' by her tail, 

I vow an' swear ! 
The game shall pay o'er moor an'^ dale. 

For this, niest year. 

As soon's the clockin-time is by, 
An' the wee pouts begun to cry, 
L — d, I'se hae sportin' by an' by, 

For my gowd guinea; 
Tho' 1 should herd the buckskin kye 

For't, in Virginia. 

Trowth, they had muckle for to blame I 
'Twas neither broken wing nor limb, 
But twa-three draps about the wame 

Scarce thro' the feathers * 
An' baith a yellow George to claim, 

An' thole their blethers ! 



It pits me ay as mad's a hare ; 

So I can rhyme nor write nae mair , 

But pennyworths again is fair, 

When time's expedient : 
Meanwhile I am, respected Sir, 

Your most obedient. 



s dream of his was then making a noise u 
the country-side. 

- A stmt? be had protnisrd thenuthor 



L. 

<©n a jeeotrf) ISairt), 



GONE TO THE WEST INDIES. 



[Burns in this Poem, as well as inothers, speaks openly of his fcwtos 
and passions : his own fortunes are dwelt on with painful minute- 
ness, and his errors are recorded with the accuracy, but not the seri- 
ousness of the confessional. He seems to have been fond of taking 
himself to task. It was written when " Hungry ruin had him in 
the wind," and emigration to the West Indies was the only refug* 
which he could think of, or his friends suggest, from the persecution.* 
of fortune.] 



A' ye wha live by sowps o' drink, 
A' ye wha live by crambo-clink, 
A' ye wha live and never think, 

Come, mourn wi' me ! 
Our billie's gien us a' a jink, 

An' owre the sea. 



Lament him a' ye rantin' core, 
Wha dearly like a random-splore, 
Nae mair he'll join the merry roar 

In social key ; 
For now he's taen anither shore. 

An' owre the &u ! 



54 



THE POETICAL WOftKS 



The bonnie lasses weel may wiss him, 
And in their dear petitions place him : 
The widows, wives, an' a' may bless him, 

Wi' tearfu' e'e ; 
For weel I wat they'll sairly miss him 

That's owre the sea ! 



O Fortune, they hae room to grumble ! 
Hadst thou ta'en aff some drowsy bummle 
VVha can do nought but fyke and fumble, 

'Twad been nae plea ; 
But he was gleg as onie wumble, 

That's owre the sea ! 



Auld, cantie Kyle may weepers wear, 
An' stain them wi' the saut, saut tear ; 
'Twill mak her poor auld heart, I fear, 

In flinders flee ; 
He was her laureate monie a year, 

That's owre the sea ! 

He saw Misfortune's cauld nor-west 
Lang mustering up a bitter blast ; 
A jillet brak his heart at last, 

111 may she be ! 
So, took a birth afore the mast, 

An' owre the sea. 



To tremble under fortune's cummock, 
On scarce a bellyfu' o drummock, 
Wi' his proud, independent stomach, 

Could ill agree ; 
So, row't his hurdies in a hammock, 

An' owre the sea. 



He ne'er was gien to great misguiding, 
Yet coin his pouches wad na bide in ; 
Wi' him it ne'er was under hiding: 

He dealt it free : 
The muse was a' that he took pride in, 

That's owre the sea. 



Jamaica bodies, use him weel, 
An' hap him in a cozie biel ; 
Ye' 11 find him ay a dainty chiel, 

And fou o' glee ; 
He wad na wrang'd the vera deil, 

That's owre the sea, 



Fareweel, my rhyme-composing billie ! 
Your native soil was right ill-willie; 
But may ye flourish like a lily, 

Now bonnilie ! 
I'll toast ye in my hindmost gillie, 

The' owre the sea ! 



LT. 
®& jfarefoell. 

" The valiant, in himself, what can he suffer t 
Or what does he regard his single woes r 
But when, alas ! he multiplies himself, 
To dearer selves, to the lov'd tender fair, 
To those whose bliss, whose beings hang upon hisa, 
To helpless children ! then, O then ! he feels 
The point of misery fest'ring in his heart, 
And weakly weeps his fortune like a coward. 
Such, such am I ! undone 1" ThokSwU. 



[In these serious stanzas where the comic, as in the lines to the Scot- 
tish baid, are not permitted to mingle, Bums bids farewell to all on 
whom his heart had any claim. He seems to have locked on the scs 
as only a place of peril, and on the West Indies as a cnamel-houre.] 



Farewell, old Scotia's bleak domains, 
Far dearer than the torrid plains 

Where rich ananas blow ! 
Farewell, a mother's blessing dear ! 
A brother's sigh ! a sister's tear ! 
My Jean's heart-rending throe ! 
Farewell, my Bess ! tho' thou'rt bereft 

Of my parental care, 
A faithful brother I have left, 
My part in him thou'lt share ! 
Adieu too, to you too, 

My Smith, my bosom frien' 
When kindly you mind me, 
O then befriend my Jean ! 



What bursting anguish tears my heart i 
From thee, my Jeany, must I part ! 
Thou weeping answ'rest — ' No !' 
Alas ! misfortune stares my face, 
And points to ruin and disgrace, 

I for thy sake must go ! 
Thee, Hamilton, and Aiken dear, 

A grateful, warm adieu ; 
I, with a much-indebted tear, 
Shall still remember you ! 
All-hail then, the gale then. 

Wafts me from thee, dear shore I 
It rustles, and whistles 
I'll never see thee more I 



LII 

Written 

On the Blank Leu/ of a Copy of my Poems, presented to an Oid 



Sweetheart, then married. 



[This is another of the poet's lamentations, at the prospect of " tor* 
rid climes" and the roars of the Atlantic. To Bums, Scotland wa* 
the land of promise, the west of Scotland his paradise; and t,r ? 
lar.d of dread, Jamaica ! I found these lines copied by the poet into 
a volume which he presented to Dr. Geddes: they were addressed, 
it is thought, to the " Dear E." of his earliest correspondence] 

( »kce fondly lov'd and still remember d dear ; 
Sweet early object of my youthful vows ! 



OF ROBKRT RURNS. 



65 



Accept this mark of friendship, warm, sincere, 
Friendship! 'tis all cold duty now allows. 

And when you read the simple artless rhymes 
One friendly sigh for him — he asks no more,- 

Who distant burns in flaming torrid climes, 
Or haply lies beneath th' Atlantic roar. 



LIU 
<B. Bcutfation 

TO 

GAVIN HAMILTON, ESQ. 



The gentleman to whom these manly lines are addressed was of 
good birth, and of an open and generous nature: he was one of the 
first of the gentry of the west to encourage the muse of Coila to 
stretch her wings at full length. His free life, and free speech exposed 
him to the censures of that stern divine, Daddie Auld, who charged 
him with the sin of absenting himself from church for three successive 
t'ays; for having, without the feav of God's servant before him, pro- 
fanely said damn it, in his presence, and for having galloped on Sun- 
day. These charges were contemptuously dismissed by the presbyte- 
rial court. Hamilton was the brother of the Charlotte to whose 
charms, on the banks of the Devon, Bums, it is said, -paid the homage 
of a lover, as well as of a poet. The poem had a place in the Kilmar- 
nock edition, but not as an express dedication.] 



Expect na, Sir, in this narration, 

A fleechin, fleth'rin dedication, 

To roose you up, an' ca' you guid, 

An' sprung o' great an' noble bluid, 

Because ye're surnam'd like his Grace ; 

Perhaps related to the race ; 

Then when I'm tir'd — and sae are ye, 

Wi' monie a fulsome, sinfu' lie, 

Set up a face, how I stop short, 

For fear your modesty be hurt. 

This may do — maun do, Sir, wi' them wha 
Maun please the great folk for a wamefou ; 
For me ! sae laigh I needna bow, 
For, Lord be thankit, I can plough; 
And when I downa yoke a naig, 
Then, Lord be thankit, I can beg; 
Sae I shall say, an' that's nae flatt'rin', 
Its just sic poet, an' sic patron. 

The Poet, some guid angel help him. 
Or els« I fear some ill ane skelp him, 
He may do weel for a' he's done yet, 
But only — he's no just begun yet. 

The Patron, (Sir, ye maun forgie me, 
I winna lie, come what will o' me) 
On ev'ry hand it will allow 1 d be, 
He's just — nae better than he should be. 



I readily and freely grant, 

He downa see a poor man want; 



What's no his ain, he winna talc it ; 

What ance he says he winna break it } 
Ought he can lend he'll no refus't, 
'Till aft his guidness is abus'd ; 
And rascals whyles that do him wraug, 
Ev'n that, he does na mind it lang : 
As master, landlord, husband, father, 
He does na fail his part in either. 

But then, nae thanks to him for a' that ; 
Nae godly symptom ye can ca' that ; 
It's naething but a milder feature, 
Of our poor sinfu', corrupt nature : 
Ye'll get the best o' moral works, 
'Mang black Gentoos and pagan Turks, 
Or hunters wild on Ponotaxi, 
| "VV ha never heard of orthodoxy. 

That he's the poor man's friend in need, 
The gentleman in word and deed, 
It's no thro' terror of damnation ; 
Its just a carnal inclination. 

Morality, thou deadly bane, 
Thy tens o' thousands thou hast slain ! 
Vain is his hope, whose stay and trust is 
In moral mercy, truth and justice ! 

No — stretch a point to catch a plack ; 
Abuse a brother to his back ; 
Steal thro' a winnock frae a whore, 
But point the rake that taks the door; 
Be to the poor like onie whunstane, 
And baud their noses to the grunstane, 
Ply ev'ry art o' legal thieving ; 
No matter — stick to sound believing. 

Learn three-mile pray'rs, an' half-mile graces, 
Wi' weel-spread looves, an lang wry faces t 
Grunt up a solemn, lengthen 'd groan, 
And damn a' parties but your own 5 
I'll warrant then, ye're nae deceivei, 
A steady, sturdy, staunch belie\ er. 



ye wha leave the springs o' Calvin, 
For gumlie dubs of your ain delvin 1 ! 
Ye sons of heresy and error, 

Ye'll some day squeel in quaking terror ! 
When Vengeance draws the sword in wrath, 
And in the fire throws the sheath ; 
When Ruin, with his sweeping besom, 
Just frets 'till Heav'n commission gies him ? 
While o'er the harp pale Mis'ry moans, 
And strikes the ever-deep 'ning tones. 
Still louder shrieks, and heavier groans i 

Your pardon, Sir, for this digression, 

1 maist forgat my dedication ; 
But when divinity comes cross me 
My readers still are sure to lose me. 

So, Sir, ye see 'twas nae daft viijwjr. 
But I maturely thought it pro$»u\ 



56 



THE POICTICAL WORKS 



When a' my works I did review, 

To dedicate them, Sir, to you: 
Because (ye need na tak it ill) 
I thought them something like your&el 

Then patronize them wi' your favour, 

And your petitioner shall ever 

I had amai-st said, ever pray, 

But that's a word I need na say: 

For prayin' I hae little skill o't ; 

I'm baith dead sweer, an' wretched ill o't ; 

But I'se repeat each poor man's pray'r, 

That kens or hears about you, Sir — 

" May ne'er misfortune's gowling bark, 
Howl thro' the dwelling o' the Clerk ! 
May ne'er his gen'rous, honest heart, 
For that same gen'rous spirit smart ! 
May Kennedy's far-honour'd name 
Lang beet his hymenea* flame, 
Till Hamiltons, at least a dizen, 
Are frae their nuptial labours risen : 
Five bonnie lasses round their table, 
And seven braw fellows, stout an' able 
To serve their king and country weel, 
By word, or pen, or pointed steel ! 
May health and peace, with mutual rays, 
Shine on the ev'ning o' his days ; 
'Till his wee curlie John's ier-oe, 
When ebbing life nae mair shall flow, 
The last, sad, mournful rites bestow." 

I will not wind a lang conclusion, 

With complimentary effusion : 

But whilst your wishes and endeavours 

Are blest with Fortune's smiles and favours, 

I am, dear Sir, with zeal most fervent, 

Your much indebted, humble servant 



But if (which pow'rs above prevent* 

That iron-hearted carl, Want, 

Attended in his grim advances, 

By sad mistakes and black mischances, 

While hopes, and joys, and pleasures fly him, 

Make you as poor a dog as I am, 

Your humble servant then no more ; 

For who would humbly serve the poor ! 

But by a poor man's hope in Heav'n ! 

While recollection's pow'r is given, 

If, in the vale of humble life, 

The victim sad of fortune's strife, 

I, thro' the tender gushing tear, 

Should recognize my Master dear, 

If friendless, low, we meet together, 

Then Sir. your hand — my friend and brother. 



LXV 

OK 

THE DEATH OF ROBERT RUISSEAITX. 



[Cromek found these verses among the loose papers of Burns, and 
printed thern in the Reliques. They contain a portion of the charac- 
ter of the poet, record his habitual carelessness in worldly affair 
and his desire to be distinguished.] 



Now Robin lies in his last lair, 

He'll gabble rhyme, nor sing nae mair, 

Cauld poverty, wi' hungry stare, 

Nae mair shall fear him « 
Nor anxious fear, nor cankert care, 

E'er mair come near him. 

To tell the truth, they seldom fash't him, 
Except the moment that they crush' t him ; 
For sune as chance or fate had hush't 'em 

Tho' e'er sae short, 
Then wi' a rhyme or song he lash't 'em, 

And thought it sport. 

Tho' he was bred to kintra wark. 

And counted was baith wight and stark, 

Yet that was never Robin's mark 

To mak a man ; 
But tell him. he was learned and dark, 

Ye roos'd him thaik i 



LV 

Setter to ^ameg Pennant, 

OF GLENCONNER. 



[The west country farmer to whom this letter was sent, was a 
social man. The poet depended on his judgment in the choice of a 
farm, when he resolved to quit the harp for the plough: tv t !-■ 
Ellisland was his choice, his skill may be questioned.] 



Auld comrade dear, and britlier sinner. 
How's a' the folk about Glenconner ? 
How do you this blae eastlin wind,, 
That's like to blaw a body blind ? 
For me, my faculties are frozen, 
My dearest member nearly dozen'd. 
I've sent you here, by Johnie Simson, 
Twa sage philosophers to glimpse on ; 
Smith, wi' his sympathetic feeling, 
An' Reid, to common sense appealing. . 
.Philosophers have fought and wrangled, 
An' meikle Greek an' Latin mangled, 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



57 



Till wi' their logic-jargon tir'd, 

An' in the depth of science mir'd, 

To common sense they now appeal, 

"What wives and wabsters see and feel. 

But, hark ye, friend ! I charge you strictly, 

Peruse them, an' return them quickly, 

For now I'm grown sae cursed douce 

I pray and ponder butt the house, 

My shins, my lane, I there sit roastin', 

Perusing Bunyan, Brown an' Boston ; 

Till by an" by, if I baud on, 

I'll grunt a real gospel groan : 

Already I begin to try it, 

To cast my e'en up like a pyet, 

When by the gun she tumbles o'er, 

Flutt'ring an' gasping in her gore : 

Sae shortly you shall see me bright, 

A burning an' a shining light. 

My heart-warm love to guid auld Glen 
The ace an' wale of honest men : 
"When bending down wi' auld gray hairs 
Beneath the load of years and cares, 
May He who made him still support him, 
An' views beyond the grave comfort him, 
His worthy fam'ly far and near, 
God bless them a' wi' grace and gear ! 

My auld schoolfellow, preacher Willie, 

The manly tar, my mason Billie, 

An' Auchenbay, I wish him joy ; 

If he's a parent, lass or boy, 

May he be dad, and Meg the mither, 

Just five-and-forty years thegither ! 

An' no forgetting wabster Charlie, 

I'm tauld he offers very fairly. 

An' Lord, remember singing Sannock, 

Wi' hale breeks, saxpence, an' a bannock, 

An' next my auld acquaintance, Nancy, 

Since she is fitted to her fancy; 

An' her kind stars hae airted till her 

A good chiel wi' a pickle siller. 

My kindest, best respects I sen' it, 

To cousin Kate, an' sister Janet ; 

Tell them, frae me, wi' chiels be cautious, 

For, faith, they'll aiblins fin' them fashious; 

To grant a heart is fairly civil, 

But to grant the maidenhead's the deviL 

An' lastly, Jamie, for yoursel, 

May guardian angels tak a spell, 

An' steer you seven miles south o' hell : 

But first, before you see heaven's glory, 

May ye get mony a merry story, 

Monie a laugh, and monie a drink, 

And aye eneugh, o' needfu' clink. 

Now fare ye weel, an' joy be wi' you, 
For my sake this I beg it o' you, 
Assist poor Simson a' ye can, 
Ye'lifin' him just an honest man ; 
Sae I- conclude, and quat my chanter, 
Your's, saint or sinner, 

Bob the Rakteb 



LVI 



ON THE 

33frtf) of a Posstfjumou-s @&UD. 



^ TFrom letters addressed by Rums to Mrs. Dunlop, it would aj^ear 
tnat this " Sweet Flowret, pledge o meikle love," was the only 
son of her daughter, Mrs. Henri, who had married a French gentk. 
man. The mother soon followed the father to the grave: shedieJ 
in the south of France, whither she had gone in search of hea-th.J 



Sweet flow'ret, pledge o' meikle love, 
And ward o' mony a pray'r, 

What heart o' stane wad thou na move, 
Sae helpless, sweet, and fair ! 

November hirples o'er the lea, 

Chill on thy lovely form ; 
And gane, alas ! the shelf rin tree, 

Should shield thee frae the storm. 

May He who gives the rain to pour, 
And wings the blast to blaw, 

Protect thee frae the driving show'r, 
The bitter frost and snaw ! 

May He, the friend of woe and want, 
Who heals life's various stoimds, 

Protect and guard the mother-plant, 
And heal her cruel wounds ! 

But late she flourish'd, rooted fast, 

Fair on the summer-morn : 
Now feebly bends she in the blast, 

Unsheltered and forlorn. 

Blest be thy bloom, thou lovely gem 

Unscath'd by ruffian hand ! 
And from thee many a parent stem 

Arise to deck our land ! 



LVII. 

A VERY" YOUNG LADY. 

Written on the blank leaf of a book, presented to her by the 
Author. 



[The beauteous rose-bud of this poem was one of the daughters o£ 
Mr. Crucikshank, a master in the High School of Edinburgh, at whose 
table Burns was a frequent guest during the year of hope which he 
si«ntin the northern metropolis.] 



Beauteous rose-bud, young and gay, 
Blooming in thy early May, 
Never may'st thou, lovely flow'r, 
Chilly shrink in sleety showV ! 



Lb 



THE POIUICAL WORKS 



Never Boreas' hoary path, 
Never Eurus' poisonous breath, 
Never baleful stellar lights, 
Taint thee with untimely blights ! 
Never, never reptile thief 
Riot on thy virgin leaf! 
Nor even Sol too fiercely view 
Thy bosom blushing still with dew ! 

May'st thou long, sweet crimson gem, 
Richly deck thy native stem : 
'Till some evening, sober, calm, 
Dropping dews and breathing balm, 
While all around the woodland rings, 
And ev'ry bird thy requiem sings ; 
Thou, amid the dirgeful sound, 
Slied thy dying honours round, 
And resign to parent earth 
The loveliest form she e'er gave birth, 



LVIII. 



f Lock hart first gave this poetic curiosity to the world : he copied it 
from a small manuscript volume of Poemsgiven by Burns to Lady Har- 
riet Don, with an explanation in these words: " VV. Chalmers, a gen- 
tleman in Ayrshire, a particular friend of mine, asked me to write a 
poetic epistle to a young lady, his Dulcinea. I had seen her, but was 
scarcely acquainted with her, and wrote as follows." Chalmers was 
a writer in Ayr. 1 have not heard that the lady was influenced by this 
volunteer effusion : ladies are seldom rhymed into the matrimonial 
snare.] 



WY braw new branks in mickle pride, 

And eke a braw new brechan, 
My Pegasus I'm got astride, 

And up Parnassus pechin ; 
Whiles owre a bush wi' downward crush 

The doited beastie stammers ; 
Then up he gets and off he sets 

For sake o' Willie Chalmers. 



I doubt na, lass, that weel kenn'd name 

May cost a pair o' blushes ; 
I am nae stranger to your fame 

Nor his warm urged wishes. 
Your bonnie face sae mild and sweet 

His iionest heart enamours, 
And faith ye'll no be lost a whit, 

Tho' waired on Willie Chalmers. 



And sic twa love-inspiring e'eii 
Might fire even holy Palmers , 

Nae wonder then they've fatal been 
To honest Willie Chalmers. 



I doubt na fortune may you shore 

Some mim-mou'd pouthered priesfriu, 
Fu' lifted up wi' Hebrew lore, 

And band upon his breastie : 
But Oh ! what signifies to you, 

His lexicons and grammars; 
The feeling heart's the royal bkie, 

And that's wi' Willie Chalmers. 



Some gapin' glowrin' countra laird, 

May warsle for your favour; 
May claw his lug, and straik his beard. 

And hoast up some palaver. 
My bonny maid, before ye wed 

Sic clumsy-witted hammers, 
Seek Heaven for help, and barefit skelp 

Awa' wi' Willie Chalmers. 



Forgive the Bard I my fond regard 

For ane that shares my besom, 
Inspires my muse to gie 'm his dues, 

For de'il a hair I roose him. 
May powers aboon unite you soon, 

And fructify your amours, — 
And every year come in mair dear 

To you and Willie Chalmers. 



LIX. 

LYING AT A REVEREND FRIEND'S HOUSE ONE 
NIGHT, THE AUTHOR LEFT THE FOLLOWING 



IN THE ROOM WHERE HE SLEPT. 



[Of the origin of these verses Gilbert Burns gives the following ac- 
count. " The first time Robert heard the spinnet played was at the 
house of Dr. Lawrie, then minister of Loudon, now in Glasgow. 
Dr. Lawrie has several daughters; one of them played ; the father 
and the mother led down the dance ; the rest of the sisters, the bro- 
ther, the Doet, and the other guests mixed in it. It was a delightful 
ttmily sce'ne for our poet, then lately introduced to the world: his 
mind was roused to a poetic enthusiasm, and the stanzas were leltic 
the room where he slept."! 



Auld Truth hersel' might swear ye're fair, 

And Honour safely back her, 
\m\ Modesty assume year air, 

And ne'er a ane mistak' her : 



O thou dread Power, who reign's t above ! 

I know Thou wilt me hear, 
When for this scene of peace and lovo 

I make my prayer sincere. 



OF ROBKRf BURNS. 



58 



The hoary sire — the mortal stroke, 
Long, long, be pleased to spare ; 

To bless his filial little flock 
And show what good men are. 



She who her lovely offspring eyes 
With tender hopes and fears, 

O, bless her with a mother's joys, 
But spare a mother's tears ! 



Their hope —their stay — their darling youth, 

In manhood's dawning blush — 
Bless him, thou God of love and truth, 

Up to a parent's wish! 



The beauteous, seraph sister-band, 
With earnest tears I pray, 

Thou know'st the snares on ev'ry hand- 
Guide Thou their steps alway. 



When soon or late they reach that coast. 
O'er life's rough ocean driven, 

May they rejoice, no wanderer lost, 
A family in Heaven ! 



LX, 

t£o &abtn l^amtltou <£sq., 

MAUCHLINE. 

(RECOMMENDING A BOY.) 



I. Verse seems to have been the natural language of Bums. The Master 
Tootie whose skill he records, lived in Mauchline, and dealt in cows : 
he was an artful and contriving person, great in bargaining and inti- 
mate with all the professional tricks by which old cows are made to 
look young, and six-pint hawkies pass for those of twelve.] 



Mosgaville, May, 3, 1788. 

L. 

I hold it, Sir, my bounden duty, 
To warn you how that Master Tootie, 

Alias, Laird M'Gaun, 
Was here to hire yon lad away 
'Bout whom ye spak the tither day, 

An' wad ha'e don't affhan^: 



But lest he learn the callan trickb, 

As, faith, I inuckle doubt him. 
Like scrcipin' outauld Cruinmie's nicks, 
An' tellin' lies about them ; 
As lieve then, I'd have then, 

Your clerkship he should sair, 
If sae be, ye may be 
Not fitted otherwhere. 



Altho' I say't, he's gleg enough, 

An' bout a house that's rude an' rough, 

The boy might learn to swear ; 
But then wi' you, he'll be sae taught, 
An' get sic fair example straught, 

I havena ony fear. 
Ye'll catechize him every quirk, 
An' shore him weel wi' Hell ; 
An' gar him follow to the kirk — 
— Ay when ye gang yoursel. 
If ye then, maun be then 

Frae hame this comin' Friday ; 
Then please Sir, to lea'e Sir, 
The orders wi' your lady. 



My word of honour I hae gien, 

In Paisley John's, that night at e'en, 

To meet the Warld's worm ; 
To try to get the twa to gree, 
An' name the airles 1 an' the fee. 

In legal mode an' form : 
I ken he weel a snick can draw, 
When simple bodies let him ; 
An' if a Devil be at a', 

In faith he's sure to get him. 
To phrase you, an' praise you, 

Ye ken your Laureat scorns : 
The pray'r still, you share still, 
Of grateful Minstrel Burns. 



LXI 

OF CRAIGEN-GILLAN. 



[It seems that Bums, delighted with the praise which the Latrd of 
Craigen-Gillan bestowed on his verses,— probably the Jolly Ueggara, 
then in the hands of Woodburn, his steward, — poured out this little 
unpremeditated natural acknowledgment.] 



Sir, o'er a gill I gat your card, 
I trow it made me proud ; 

See wha tak's notice o' the bard 1 
I lap and cry'd fu' loud. 

1 Theairies— etm«t ruonry. 



(10 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



Now deil-ma-care about their jaw, 
The senseless, gawky million : 

I'll cock my nose aboon them a' — 
I'm roos'd by Craigen-Gillan ! 

'Twas noble, Sir ; 'twas like yoursel, 
To grant your high protection: 

A great man's smile ye ken fu' well, 
Is ay a blest infection. 

Tho' by his * banes who in a tub 

Match'd Macedonian Sandy ! 
On my ain legs thro' dirt and dub, 

I independent stand ay. — 

And when those legs to gude, warm kail, 
Wi' welcome canna bear me ; 

A lee dyke-side, a sybow-tail, 
And barley-scone chall cheer me. 

Heaven spare you lang to kiss the breath 

O' many flow'ry simmers ! 
And bless your bonnie lasses baith, 

I'm tauld they're loosome kimmers ! 

And God bless young Dunaskin's laird, 

The blossom of our gentry ! 
And may he wear an auld man's beard, 

A credit to his country. 



LXII. 

&n$foer to a ^odtcal lEpisik 

SENT TO THE AUTHOR BY A TAILOR. 

[The person who in the name of a Tailor took the liberty of ad- 
monishing Dims about his errors, is generally believed to have been 
William Simpson, the schoolmaster of Ochiltree: the verses seem 
about the measure of his capacity, and were attributed at the time 
to his hand. The natural poet took advantage of the mask in 
which the made poet concealed himself, and rained such a merciless 
Btorm upon him, as would have extinguished half the Tflilois in Ayr- 
shire, tuid made the amazed dominie 

" Strangely fidge and fyke.' 

It was first printed in 1301, by Stewart.] 

What ails ye now, ye lousie b — h, 
To thresh my back at sic a pitch ? 
Losh, man ! hae mercy wi' your natch, 

Your bodkin's bauld, 
I didna suffer ha'f sae much 

Frae Daddie Auld. 

What tho' at times when I grow crouse, 
I gie their wames a random pouse, 
Is that enough for you to souse 

Your servant sae ? 
Gae inindyour seam, ye prick the louse, 

An' jag the flae. 



King David o' poetic brief, 

Wrought 'mang the lasses sic mischief, 

As fill'd his after life wi' grief, 

An' bluidy rants, 
An' yet he's rank'd among the chief 

O' lang-syne saunts. 

And maybe, Tarn, for a' my cants, 
My wicked rhymes, an' druken rants, 
I'll gie auld cloven Clootie's haunts 

An' unco slip yet, 
An' snugly sit among the saunts 

At Davie's hip get. 

But fegs, the Session says I maun 

Gae fa' upo' anither plan, 

Than garrin lasses cowp the cran 

Clean heels owre body, 
And sairly thole their mither's ban 

Afore the howdy. 

This leads me on, to tell for sport, 
How I did wi' the Session sort, 
Auld Clinkum at the inner port 

Cried three times—" Robin ] 
Come hither, lad, an' answer for't, 

Ye're blamed for jobbin'." 

Wi' pinch I pat a Sunday's face on, 
An' snoov'd away before the Session; 
I made an open fair confession — 

I scorn'd to lee ; 
An' syne Mess John, beyond expression, 

Fell foul o' me. 

A fornicator-loun he call'd me, 

An' said my fau't frae bliss expell'd me ; 

I own'd the tale was true he tell'd me, 

' But what the matter ?"' 
Quo 1 I, { I fear, unless ye geld me, 

I'll ne'er be better.' 



" Geld you !" quo' he, " and whatfor no ? 
If that your right hand, leg, or toe, 
Should ever prove your sp'ritual foe, 

You shou'd remember 
To cut it aff, an' whatfor no 

Your dearest member ?' 

' Na, na,' quo' I, ' I'm no for that, 
Gelding's nae better than 'tis ca't 
I'd rather suffer for my faut 

A hearty flewit, 
As saire owre hip as ye can draw't, 

Tho' I should rue it, 

' Or gin ye like to end the bother, 
To please us a', I've just ae nither, 
When next wi' yon lass I forgather, 

Whate'er betide it, 
I'll frankly gie her't a' thegither, 

An' let. her guide it' 






OF ROBERT BURNS. 



61 



But, Sir, this pleas'd them warst ava, 
An' therefore, Tain, when that I saw, 
I said ' Gudenight,' and cam awa', 

And left the Session. 
I saw they were resolved a' 

On my oppression. 



LXIIL 

2To % Manltme. 



| With the Laird of AdamhilTs personal character the reader is al- 
roidy acquainted : the lady about whose frailties the rumour alluded 
to was about to rise, has not been named, and it would neither be 
delicate nor polite to guess.] 



1 am a keeper of the law 

In some sma' points, altho' not a' ; 

Some people tell me gin I fa' 

Ae way or ither, 
The breaking of ae point, though sma', 

Breaks a' thegither. 

I hae been in for't ance or twice, 
And winna say o'er far for thrice, 
Yet never met with that surprise 

That broke my rest, 
But now a rumour's like to rise, 

A whaup's i' the nest. 



LXIV 
% i it e g 

WRITTEN ON A BANK-NOTE. 



fThe bank-note on which these characteristic lines were endorsed, 
c&me into the hands of the late James Gracie, banker, in Dumfries : 
he knew the hand-writing of Burns, and kept it as a curiosity. The 
concluding lines point to the year 1786, as the date of the composi- 
tion.! 



Wae worth thy power, thou cursed leaf, 
Fell source o' a' my woe and grief; 
For lack o' thee I've lost my lass, 
For lack o' thee I scrimp my glass. 
I see the children of affliction 
Unaided, through thy cursed restriction. 
I've seen the oppressor's cruel smile 
Amid his hapless victim's spoil : 
And for thy potence vainly wished, 
To crush the villain in the dust. 
For lack o' thee, I leave this much-lov'd shores 
N ever, perhaps, to greet old Scotland more. 

R. B. 



LXV 

[ Bream. 



' Thoughts, words, and deeds, the statute blames with reason ; 
But surely dreams were ne'er indicted treason." 



On reading, in the public papers, the " Laureate's Ode," with thr 
other parade of June 4, 17BG, the author was no sooner dro»;i 
asleep, than he imagined himself transported to the birth-d * 
levee; and in his dreaming fancy made the following " Address.' 



[The prudent friends of the poet remonstrated with him abcui 
this Poem, which they appeared to think would injure his fortune) 
and stop the royal bounty to which he was thought entitled. Mrs. 
Dunlop, and Mrs. Stewart, of Stair, solicited him in vain to omit ii 
in the Edinburgh edition of his poems. I know of no poem for which 
a claim of being prophetic would be so successfully set up : it is full 
of point as well as of the future. The allusions require no com- 
ment.] 



Guid-mornin' to your Majesty ! 

May Heaven augment your blisses, 
On ev'ry new birth-day ye see, 

A humble poet wishes ! 
My hardship here, at your levee, 

On sic a day as this is, 
Is sure an uncouth sight to see, 

Amang thae birth-day dresses 

Sae line this day. 

I see ye're complimented thrang, 

By many a lord an' lady; 
"God save the king!" 's a cuckoo sang 

That's unco easy said ay; 
The poets, too, a venal gang, 

Wi' rhymes weel-turn'd and ready, 
"Wad gar you trow ye ne'er do wrang, 

But ay unerring steady, 

On sic a day. 

For me ! before a monarch's face, 

Ev'n there I winna flatter ; 
For neither pension, post, nor place, 

Am I your humble debtor : 
So' nae reflection on your grace, 

Your kingship to bespatter ; 
There's monie waur been o' the race, 

And aiblins ane been better 

Than you this aay, 

'Tis very true, my sov'reign king, 

My skill may weel be doubted : 
But facts are chiels that winna ding, 

An' downa be disputed : 
Your royal nest, beneath your wing, 

Is e ; en right reft an' clouted, 
And now the third part of the string, 

An' less, will gaug about it 

Than did ae day. 

Far be't frae me that I aspire 

To blame your legislation, 
Or say, ye wisdom want, or fire, 

To rule this mighty nation ! 



62 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



But, faith ! I muckle doubt, my sire, 

Ye*ve trusted ministration 
To chaps, wha, in a barn or byre, 

Wad better fill'd their station 

Than courts yon day. 

And now ye've gien auld Britain peace, 

Her broken shins to plaister ; 
Your sair taxation does her fleece, 

Till she has scarce a tester; 
For me, thank God, my life's a lease, 

Nae bargain wearing faster, 
Or, faith ! I fear, that, wi' the geese, 

I shortly boost to pasture 

I' the craft some day, 

I'm no mistrusting "Willie Pitt, 

When taxes he enlarges, 
(An' Will's a true guid fallow's get, 

A name not envy spairges,) 
That he intends to pay your debt, 

An' lessen a' your charges ; 
But, G-d-sake ! let nae saving-fit 

Abridge your borne barges 

An' boats this day. 

Adieu, my Liege ! may freedom geek 

Beneath your high protection ; 
An' may ye rax corruption's neck, 

And gie her for dissection ! 
But since I'm here, I'll no neglect, 

In loyal, true affection, 
To pay your Queen, with due respect, 

My fealty an' subjection 

This great birth- day. 

Hail, Majesty Most Excellent ! 

While nobles strive to please ye, 
Will ye accept a compliment 

A simple poet gi'es ye ? 
Thae bonnie bairntime, Heav'n has lent. 

Still higher may they heeze ye 
In bliss, till fate some day is sent, 

For ever to release ye 

Frae care that day. 

For you, young potentate o' Wales, 

I tell your Highness fairly, 
Down pleasure's stream, wi 7 swelling sails, 

I'm tauld ye're driving rarely ; 
But some day ye may gnaw your nails, 

An' curse your folly sairly, 
That e'er ye brak Diana's pales, 

Orrattl'd dice wi' Charlie, 

By night or day. 

Yet aft a ragged cowte's been known 

To mak a noble aiver ; 
So, ye may doucely fill a throne, 

For a' their clish-ma-claver : 
There, him at Agincourt wha shone, 

Few better were or braver ; 
And yet, wi' funny, queer Sir John, 

He was an unco shaver 

For monie a day. 



For you, right rev 'rend Osnaburg, 

Nane sets the lawn-sleeve sweeter, 
Altho' a ribbon at your lug, 

Wad been a dress completer : 
As ye disown yon paughty dog 

That bears the keys of Peter, 
Then, swith ! an' get a wife to hug, 

Or, trouth! ye 1 !! stain the mitre 

Some luckless daj 

Young, royal Tarry Breeks, I learn, 

Ye've lately come athwart her ; 
A glorious galley, 1 stem an stern, 

W?el rigg'd for Venus' barter ; 
But first hang out, that she'll discern 

Your hymeneal charter, 
Then heave aboard your grapple aim, 

An', large upon her quarter, 

Come full that day. 

Ye, lastly, bonnie blossoms a', 

Ye royal lasses dainty, 
Heav'n mak you guid as weel as braw, 

An' gie you lads a-plenty : 
But sneer na British Boys awa', 

For kings are unco scant ay ; 
An' German gentles are but sasa , « 

They're better just than want ay 
On onie day. 

God bless you a' ! consider now, 

Ye're unco muckle dautet ; 
But ere the course o' life be thro', 

It may be bitter sautet : 
An' I hae seen their coggie fou, 

That yet hae tarrow't at it; 
But or the day was done, I trow, 

The laggen they hae clautet 

Fu' clean that day. 



LXVI. 

% Parti's lEpitapf). 

fThis beautiful and affecting poem was printed in the Kilmar- 
nock edition : Wordsworth writes with his usual taste and feeling 
about it : " Whom did the poet intend shouid be thought of, as oc- 
cupying that grave, over which, after modestly setting forth the 
moral discernment and warm affections of the * poor inhabitant' It 
is supposed to be inscribed that 

* Thoughtless follies lrdd him low, 

And stained his name !' 

Who but himself— Himself anticipating the but too probable eattnln- 
acion of his own course? Here is a sincere and solemn avowal— a 
confession at once devout, poetical, and human— a history in tae 
shape of a prophecy ! What more was required of the biograpiiei/ 
than to have put his seal to the writing, testifying that the !bro. 
boding had been realized and that the record was authentic '."} 

Is there a whim-inspired fool, 

Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule, 

Owre blate to seek, owre proud to snool, 

Let him draw near; 
And owre this grassy heap sing dool. 

And drap a tear. 



i Alluding to tin 



siuper account of a certain royal sailm'saini 



OF ROiJKRT BURNS. 



«a 



Is there a bard of rustic song, 

Who, noteless, steals the crowds among, 

That weekly this area throng, 

O, pass not by! 
But, with a frater-feeling strong, 

Here heave a sigh. 

Is there a man, whose judgment clear, 
Can otlters teach the course to steer, 
Yet runs, himself, life's mad career, 

Wild as the wave ; 
Here pause — and, through the starting tear, 

Survey this grave. 

The poor inhabitant below, 

Was quick to learn, and wise to know, 

And keenly felt the friendly glow, 

And softer flame, 
But thoughtless follies laid him low, 

And stain'd his name ! 



Reader, attend — whether thy soul 
Soars fancy's flights beyond the pole, 
Or darkling grubs this earthly hole, 

In low pursuit ; 
Know prudent, cautious self-control, 

Is wisdom's root. 



LXVII. 



Zfy ^foa ^ogg. 



[Cromek, an anxious and curious enquirer, informed me, that the 
Twa Dogs was in a half-finished state, when the poet consulted 
John Wilson, the printer, about the Kilmarnock edition. On look- 
ing over the manuscripts, the printer, with a sagacity common to 
his profession, said, " the Address to theDeil" and " The Holy Fail-" 
were grand things, but it would be as well to have a calmer and se- 
dater strain, to put at the front of the volume. Burns was struck 
with the remark, and on his way home to Mossgiel, completed the 
Poem, and took it next day, to Kilmarnock, much to the satisfaction 
of" Wee Johnnie." On the 17th of February Bums says to John 
Richmond, of Mauchline, " I have completed my Poem of the Twa 
Dogs, but have not shown it to the world." It is difficult to fix the 
dates with any thing like accuracy, to compositions which are not 
struck off at one heat of the fancy. " Luath was one of the poet's 
dogs, which some person had wantonly killed," says Gilbert Burns; 
" but Caesar was merely the creature of the imagination." The Et- 
trick Shepherd, a judge of collies, says that Luath is true to the 
life, and that many a hundred times he lias seen the dogs bark for 
very joy, when the cottage children were merry.] 



*Twas in that place o' Scotland's isle 
That bears the name o' Auld King Coil, 
Upon a bonnie day in June, 
When wearing through the afternoon, 
Twa dogs that were na thrang at hame, 
Forgather' d ance upon a time. 



The first I'll name they ca'd him Caesar, 
Was keepit for his honour's pleasure ; 
His hair, his size, his mouth, his lugs, 
Shew'd he was nane o' Scotland's dogs ; 
But whalpit some place far abroad, 
Where sailors gang to fish for cod. 

His locked, letter'd, braw brass collar 

Shew'd him the gentleman and scholar; 

But though he was o' high degree, 

The fient a pride — nae pride had he; 

But wad hae spent an hour caressin', 

Ev'n wi' a tinkler-gypsey's messin'. 

At kirk or market, mill or smiddie, 

Nae tawted tyke, though e'er sae duddie, 

But he wad stan't, as glad to see him, 

And stroan't on stanes and hillocks wi' him. 



The tither was a ploughman's collie, 

A rhyming, ranting, raving billie, 

Wha for his friend an' comrade had him, 

And in his freaks had Luath ca'd him, 

After some dog in Highland sang, l 

Was made lang syne — Lord knows how lang, 

He was a gash an' faithful tyke, 
As ever lap a sheugh or dyke. 
His honest, sonsie, baws'nt face, 
Ay gat him friends in ilka place. 
His breast was white, his touzie back 
Weel clad wi' coat o' glossy black ; 
His gaucie tail, wi' upward curl, 
Hung o'er his hurdies wi' a swirl. 

Nae doubt but they were fain o' ither, 

An' unco pack an' thick thegither ; 

Wi' social nose whyles snuff'd and snowkit, 

Whyles mice and moudie worts they howkit. 

Whyles scour 'd awa in lang excursion, 

An' worry'd ither in diversion ; 

Until wi' daffin weary grown, 

Upon a knowe they sat them down, 

And there began a lang digression 

About the lords o' the creation. 



I've aften wonder'd, honest Luath, 
What sort o' life poor dogs like you have ; 
An' when the gentry's life I saw, 
What way poor bodies liv'd ava. 

Our laird gets in his racked rents, 
His coals, his kain, and a' his stents ; 
He rises when he likes himsel ; 
His flunkies answer at the bell ; 
He ca's his coach, he ca's his horse ; 
He draws a bonnie silken purse 



i Cuchullin's Aoc in Ossian'i Fingal- 



64 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



^8 land's my tail, whare, through the steeks, 
J'hc yellow letter'd Geordie keeks. 

Fi'ae morn to e'en its nought but toiling, 
At baking, roasting, frying, boiling ; 
An' though the gentry first are stechin, 
Yet even the ha' folk fill their pechan 
Wi' sauce, ragouts, and sic like trashtrie, 
That's little short o' downright wastrie. 
Our whipper-in, wee, blastit wonner, 
Poor worthless elf, it eats a dinner, 
Better than ony tenant man 
His honour has in a' the Ian' ; 
An' what poor cot-folk pit their painch in, 
I own its past my comprehension. 



Trowth, Caesar, whyles they're fash't enough ; 

A cotter howkin in a sheugh, 

Wi' dirty stanes biggin' a dyke, 

Baring a quarry, and sic like ; 

Himself, a wife, he thus sustains, 

A smytrie o' wee duddie weans, 

An' nought but his han' darg, to keep 

Them right and tight in thack an' rape. 

An' when they meet wi' sair disasters, 
Like loss o' health, or want o' masters, 
Ye maist wad think, a wee touch langer, 
An' they maun starve o' cauld and hunger ; 
But, how it comes, I never kenn'd yet, 
They're maistly wonderfu' contented : 
An' buirdly chiels, an' clever hizzies, 
Are bred in sic a way as this is. 



But then to see how ye're negleckit, 
How huff d and cuff d, and disrespeckit ! 
L — d, man, our gentry care as little 
For delvers, ditchers, an' sic cattle ; 
They gang as saucy by poor folk, 
As I wad by a stinking brock. 

I've notic'd, on our Laird's court-day, 
An' mony a time my heart's been wae, 
Poor tenant bodies, scant o' cash, 
How they maun thole a factor's snash : 
He'll stamp an' threaten, curse an' swear, 
He'll apprehend them, poind their gear ; 
While they maun stan', wi' aspect humble, 
An' hear it a', an' fear an tremble ! 

I see how folk live that hae riches ; 
But surely poor folk maun be wretches ! 



They're no sae wretched's ane wad think ; 
Tho' constantly on poortith's brink : 
They're sae accustom 'd wi' the sight, 
The view o t gies them little fright. 



Then chance an' fortune are sae guided, 
They're ay in less or mair provided; 
An' tho' fatigu'd wi' close employment, 
A blink o' rest's a sweet enjoyment. 

The dearest comfort o' their lives, 
Their grushie weans, an' faithfu' wives ; 
The prattling things are just their pride, 
That sweetens a' their fire-side ; 
An' whyles twalpennie worth o' nappy 
Can mak' the bodies unco happy; 
They lay aside their private cares, 
To mind the Kirk and State affairs : 
They'll talk o' patronage and priests, 
Wi' kindling fury in their breasts. 
Or tell what new taxation's comin*, 
And ferlie at the folk in Lon'on. 

As bleak-fac'd Hallowmass returns, 
They get the jovial, ranting kirns, 
When rural life, o' ev'ry station, 
Unite in common recreation ; 
Love blinks, Wit slaps, an' social Mirth, 
Forgets there's Care upo' the earth. 

That merry day the year begins, 
They bar the door on frosty win's ; 
The nappy reeks wi' mantling ream, 
An' sheds a heart -inspiring steam ; 
The luntin pipe, an' sneeshin mill, 
Are handed round wi' right guid will ; 
The cantie auld folks crackin' crouse, 
The young anes rantin' thro' the house,— 
My heart has been sae fain to see them, 
That I for joy hae barkit wi' them. 

Still it's owre true that ye hae said, 
Sic game is now owre aftenplay'd. 
There's monie a creditable stock 
O' decent, honest, fawsont folk, 
Are riven out baith root and branch, 
Some rascal's pridefu' greed to quench 
Wha thinks to knit hinisel the faster 
In favour wi' some gentle master, 
Wha' aiblins, thrang a parliamentin', 
For Britain's guid his saul indentin' — 



Haith, lad, ye little ken about it ! 

For Britain's guid ! guid faith, I doubt it 

Say rather, gaun as Premiers lead him, 

An' saying, aye or no's they bid him: 

At operas an' plays parading, 

Mortgaging, gambling, masquerading ; 

Or may be, in a frolic daft, 

To Hague or Calais takes a waft, 

To mak a tour, an' tak' a whirl, 

To learn Ion ton, an' see the worl . 

There, at Vienna or Versailles, 
He rives his father's auld entail** ,* 



OK ROBKRT IIT7RNS. 



(< r > 



Or by Madrid lie takes the rout, 

To thrum guitars, an' fecht wi' nowt ; 

Or down Italian vista startles, 

Wh-re-hunting amang groves o' myrtles ; 

Then bouses drumly German water, 

To mak' himsel' look fair and fatter. 

An' clear the consequential sorrows, 

Love-gifts of carnival signoras. 

For Britain's guid ! — for her destruction ! 

Wi* dissipation, feud, an' faction. 



Hech man ! dear sirs ! is that the gate 
They waste sae mony a braw estate ! 
Are we sae foughten an' harass'd 
For gear to gang that gate at last ! 

O would they stay aback frae courts, 
An' please themsels wi' countra sports, 
It wad for ev'ry ane be better, 
The Laird, the Tenant, an' the Cotter! 
For thae frank, rantin', ramblin' billies, 
Fient haet o' them's ill-hearted fellows ; 
Except for breakin' o' their timmer, 
Or speakin' lightly o' their limmer, 
Or shooti-n' o' a hare or moor-cock, 
The ne'er a bit they're ill to poor folk. 

But will ye tell me, Master Caesar, 
Sure great folk's life's a life o' pleasure ? 
Nae cauld or hunger e'er can steer them. 
The vera thought o't need na fear them. 



L — d, man, were ye but whyles whare I am. 
The gentles ye wad ne'er envy 'em. 

It's true, they needna starve or sweat, 
Thro' winter's cauid, or simmer's heat ; 
They've nae sair wark to craze their banes, 
An' fill auld age wi' grips an' granes : 
But human bodies are sic fools, 
For a' their colleges and schools, 
That when nae real ills perplex them, 
They mak enow themsels to vex them ; 
An' ay the less they hae to sturt them, 
In like proportion less will hurt them. 

A country fellow at the pleugh, 
His acres till'd, he's right enough ; 
A country girl at her wheel, 
Her dizzen's done, she's unco weel : 
But Gentlemen, an' Ladies warst, 
"Wi' ev'n down want o' wark are* curst. 
They loiter, lounging, lank, an' lazy ; 
Tho' deil haet ails them, yet uneasy ; 
Their days insipid, dull, an' tasteless ; 
Their nights unquiet, lang, an' restless ; 
An' even their sports, their balls an' races, 
Their galloping thro' public places, 
There's sic parade, sic pomp, an' art, 
The joy can scarcely reach the heart. 



The men cast out in party matches. 
Then sowther a' in deep debauches; 
Ae night they're mad wi' drink and wh-ring, 
Niest day their life is past enduring. 
The Ladies arm-in-arm in clusters, 
As great and gracious a' as sisters; 
But hear their absent thoughts o' ither, 
They're a' run deils an' jads thegither. 
Whyles, o'er the wee bit cup a::' platie, 
They sip the scandal potion pretty ; 
Orlee-lang nights, wi' crabbit leuks 
Pore owre the devil's pictur'd beuks ; 
Stake on a chance a farmer's stackyard, 
An' cheat like onie unhang' d blackguard. 

There's some exception, man an woman ; 
, But this is Gentry's life in common. 

By this, the sun was out o' sight, 
An' darker gloaming brought the night : 
The bum-clock humm'd wi' lazy drone ; 
The kye stood rowtin i' the loan ; 
When up they gat, and shook their lugf;, 
Rejoic'd they were na men but dogs ; 
An' each took afF his several way, 
Resolv'd to meet some ither day. 



LXVIII. 

LINES 

ON 

iHeetmg font!) Sovt) Daer. 



["The first time [ saw Robert Burns," says Dugald Stewart, 
" was on the 23rd of October, 1780', when he dined at my house ic 
Ayrshire, togetherwith our common friend, John Mackenzie, surgeon 
in Mauchline, to whom I am indebted for the pleasure of his ac- 
quaintance. My excellent and much-lamented friend, the late Basil, 
Lord Daer, happened to arrive at Catrine the same day, and by th« 
kindness and frankness of his manners, left an impression on the 
mind of the poet which was never effaced. The verses which the 
poet wrote on the occasion are among the most imperfect of bis 
pieces, but a few stanzas may perhaps be a matter of curiosity, both 
on account ef the character to which they relate and the light which 
they throw on the situation and the feelings of the writer before hit 
name was known to the public." Basil, Lord Daer, the uncle of 
the present Earl of Selkirk, was born in the year 1769, at the 
family seat of St. Mary's Isle: he distinguished himself early at 
school, and at college excelled in literature and science; he had a 
greater regard for democracy than was then reckoned consistent with 
his birth and rank. He was, when Burns met him, in his twenty- 
third year; was very tall, something careless in his dress, and had 
the taste and taknt common to his distinguished family. He die/' 
in his thirty-third year.] 

This wot ye all whom it concerns, 
I, Rhymer Robin, alias Burns, 

October twenty-third, 
A ne'er-to-be-forgotten day, 
Sae far I sprachled up the brae, 

I dinner' d wi' a Lord. 

I've been at druken writers' feasts, 
Nay, been bitch-fou 'mang godly priests, 

Wi' rev'rence be it spoken : 
I've even join"d the honour 1 d jorum, 
When mighty squireships of the quorum, 

Their hydra drouth did sloLeiL 



66 



THE POETtCA.L WORKS 



But wi' a Lord — stand out my shin, 
A Lord— a Peer — an Earl's son, 

Up higher yet my honnet ! 
And sic a Lord ! — lang Scotch ells twa, 
Our Peerage he o'erlooks them a', 

As I look o'er my sonnet. 

But, oh ! for Hogarth's magic pow'r! 
To show Sir Bardie's willyart glow'r, 

And how he star'd and stammer' d, 
When goavan, as if led wi' branks, 
An' stumpan on his ploughman shanks, 

He in the parlour hammer' d. 

I sidling shelter' d in a nook, 
An' at his lordship steal' t a look, 

Like some portentous omen ; 
Except good sense and social glee, 
An' (what surpris'd me) modesty, 

I marked nought uncommon, 

I watch' d the symptoms o' the great, 
The gentle pride, the lordly state, 

The arrogant assuming; 
The fient a pride, nae pride had he, 
Nor sauce, nor state, that I could see, 

Mair than an honest ploughman. 

Then from his lordship I shall learn, 
Henceforth to meet with unconcern 

One rank as weel's another ; 
Nae honest worthy man need care 
To meet with noble youthful Daer, 

For he but meets a brother. 



LXTX. 
&tt)re*<> to ^Etiinburgl;. 



[«' I enciose you two poems," said Burns to his friend Chalmers. 
'• which I have carded and spun since I passed Glenbuck. One blank 
In the Address to Edinburgh, « Fair B ,' is the heavenly Miss Bur- 
net, daughter to Lord Monboddo, at whose house I have had the 
honour to be more than once. There has not been anything nearly 
lite her, in all the combinations of beauty, grace, and goodness the 
great Creator has formed, since Milton's Eve, on the first day of her 
existence." Lord Monboddo made himself ridiculous by his specu- 
lations on human nature, and acceptable by his kindly- manners and 
suppers in the manner of the ancients, where his viands were spread 
under ambrosial lights, and his Falernian was wreathed with flow- 
ers. At these suppers Burns sometimes made his appearance. The 
'• Address" was first printed in the Edinburgh edition: the poet's 
hopes were then hi*h, and his compliments, both to town' and people, 
«-ere elegant and hnppy.j 



Eoina! Scotia's darling seat ' 
All hail thy palaces and tow'rs, 

Where once beneath a monarch's foot 
Sat Legislation's sov' reign pow'rs ! 



Prom marking wildly-scatter'd fiow'rs, 
As on the banks of Ayr I stray 'd, 

And singing, lone, the ling'ring hours, 
I shelter in thy honour' d shade. 



Here wealth still swells the golden tide, 

As busy Trade his labour plies ; 
There Architecture's noble pride 

Bids elegance and splendour rise ; 
Here Justice, from her native skies, 

High wields her balance and her rod 
There Learning, with his eagle eyes, 

Seeks Science in her coy abode. 



Thy sons, Edina ! social, kind, 

With open arms the stranger hail ; 
Their views enlarg'd, their lib'ral mind, 

Above the narrow, rural vale; 
Attentive still to sorrow's wail, 

Or modest merit's silent claim ; 
And never may their sources fail ! 

And never envy blot their name ! 



Thy daughters bright thy walks adorn, 

Gay ss the gilded summer sky, 
Sweet a ■ the dewy milk-white thorn, 

Dear as the raptur'd thrill of joy ! 
Fair Burnet strikes th' adoring eye, 

Heav'n's beauties on my fancy shine; 
I see the Sine of Love on high, 

And own his work indeed divine ! 



There, watching high the least alarms, 

Thy rough, rude fortress gleams afar ; 
Like some bold vet'ran, gray in arms, 

And mark'd with many a seamy scar : 
The pond'rous wall and massy bar, 

Grim-rising o'er the rugged rock ; 
Have oft withstood assailing war, 

And oft repeird th' invader's shock. 



With awe-struck thought, and pitying tear 

I view that noble, stately dome, 
Where Scotia's kings of other years, 

Fam'd heroes ! had their royal home : 
Alas, how chang'd the times to come! 

Their royal name low in the dust ! 
Their hapless race wild-wand'ring roam, 

Tho' rigid law cries out, *twas just ! 



Wild beats my heart to trace your steps, 
Whose ancestors, in days of yore. 

Thro' hostile ranks and ruin'd gaps 
Old Scotia's bloodv Hon bore:, 




' 






OF ROBERT BURNS. 



<?7 



Ev'n I who sing in rustic lore, 
Haply, ray sires have left their shed, 

Aud fac'd grim danger's loudest roar, 
Bol J-following where your fathers led ! 



Edina ! Scotia's darling seat ! 

All hail thy palaces and tow'rs, 
Where once beneath a monarch's feet 

Sat Legislation's sov'reign pow'rs ! 
From making wildly-scatter'd flow'rs, 

As on the banks of Ayr I s-tray'd, 
And singing, lone, the ling'ring hours, 

I shelter in thy honour'd shade. 



LXX 

lEptetle to J&ajor 2Logan. 



[Major Logan, of Camlarg, lived, when this hasty Poem was writ- 
ten, with his mother and sister, at Park-house, near Ayr. He was a 
good musician, a joyous companion, and something of a wit. The 
Epistle was printed, for the first time, in my edition of Burns, in 
1834, and since then no other edition has wanted it.] 



Hail, thairm-inspirin', rattlin' Willie ! 
Though fortune's road be rough an' hilly 
To every fiddling, rhyming billie, 

We never heed, 
But take it like the unbacked filly, 

Proud o' her speed. 

When idly goavan whyles we saunter 
Yirr, fancy barks, awa' we canter 
Uphill, down brae, till some mishanter, 

Some black bog-hole, 
Arrests us, then the scathe an' banter 

We're forced to thole. 



Hale be your heart ! Hale be your fiddle ! 
Lang may your elbuck jink and diddle, 
To cheer you through the weary widdle 

O' this wild warl', 
Until you on a crummock driddle 

A gray hair'd carl. 



Come wealth, come poortith, late or soon 
Heaven send your heart-strings ay in tune, 
And screw your temper pins aboon 

A fifth or mair, 
The melancholious, lazy croon 

O 1 cankrie care. 



May still your life from day to dc:y 
Nae " lente largo" in the play, 
But " allegretto forte" gay 

Harmonious fiou 
A sweeping, kindling, bauld strathspey — 

Encore ! Bravo ! 

A blessing on the cheery gang 
Wha dearly like a jig or sang, 
An' never think o' right an' wrang 

By square an' rule, 
But as the clegs o' feeling stang 

Are wise or fool. 

My hand-waled curse keep hard in chase 
The harpy, hoodock, purse-proud race, 
Wha count on poortith as disgrace — 

Their tuneless hearts I 
May fireside discords jar a base 

To a' their parts ! 

But come, your hand, my careless brither, 
I' th' ither warl' if there's anither, 
An' that there is I've little s wither 

About the matter ; 
We cheek for chow shall jog thegither, 

I'se ne'er bid better. 

We've faults and failings — granted clearly, 
We're frail backsliding mortals merely, 
Eve's bonny squad priests wyte them sheer) v 

For our grand fa' ; 
But still, but still, I like them dearly — 

God bless them a' ! 

Ochon for poor Castalian drinkers, 
When they fa' foul o' earthly j inkers, 
The witching curs' d delicious blinkers 

Hae put me hyte, 
And gart me weet my waukrife winkers, 

Wi' girnan spite. 

But by yon moon ! — and that^s high sweanV 
An' every star within my hearm' ! 
An' by her een wha was a dear ane ! 

I'll ne'er forget ; 
I hope to gie the jads a clearin' 

In fair play yet. 

My loss I mourn, but not repent it, 
I'll seek my pursie whare I tint it, 
Ance to the Indies I were wonted. 

Some cantraip hour. 
By some sweet elf I'll yet be dinted, 

Then, vive ramoar ' 

Faites mes baissemains respectueuse, 

To sentimental sister Susie, 

An' honest Lucky ; no to roose you, 

Ye may be prowl, 
That sic a couple fate allows ye 

To grace your btoea 



(58 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



Nae inair at pi esent can I measure, 

An' trowth my rhymin' ware's nae treasure ; 

But when in Ayr, some half-hour's leisure, 

Be't light, be't dark, 
Sir Bard will do himself the pleasure 

To call at Park. 

Robert Burns. 
Mossgicl, 3Qtk October, 1786. 



LXXI 

he Brigs of &gr, 



A POEM, 

INSCRIBED TO J. BALLANTYNE, ESQ., AYR. 



["Burns took the hint of this Poem from the Planestanes and 
Causeway of Fergusson, but all that lends it life and feeling belongs 
to his own heart and his native Ayr : ha wrote it for the second edi- 
tion of his Poems, and in compliment to the patrons of his genius in 
the west Ballantyne, to whom the Poem is inscribed, was generous 
when the distresses of his farming speculations pressed upon him: 
others of his friends figure in the scene : Montgomery's courage, the 
learning of Dugald Stewart, and condescension and kindness of Mrs. 
General Stewart, of Stair, are gratefully recorded.] 



The simple Bard, rough at the rustic plough, 
Learning his tuneful trade from ev'ry bough ; 
The chanting linnet, or the mellow thrush, 
Hailing the setting sun, sweet, in the green 

thorn bush ; 
The soaring lark, the perching red-breast shrill, 
Or deep-ton'd plovers, gray, wild-whistling o'er 

the hill ; 
Shall he, nurstin the peasant's lowly shed, 
To hardy independence bravely bred, 
By early poverty to hardship steel' d, 
And train'd to arms in stern misfortune's 

field- 
Shall he be guilty of their hireling crimes, 
The servile, mercenary Swiss of rhymes ? 
Or labour hard the panegyric close, 
With all the venal, soul of dedicating prose 1 
No ! though his artless strains he rudely sings, 
And throws his hand uncouthly o'er the strings, 
He glows with all the spirit of the Bard, 
Fame, honest fame, his great, his dear reward ! 
Still, if some patron's gen'rous care he trace, 
Skill' d in the secret to bestow with grace ; 
When Ballantyne befriends his humble name, 
And hands the rustic stranger up to fame, 
With heartfelt throes his grateful bosom swells, 
The godlike bliss, to give, alone excels. 



'Twas when the stacks get on their winter 
hup, 
&Qd (hack and rape secure the toil-won crap; 



Potatoe-bmgs are snugged up frac skaith 
Of coming Winter's biting, frosty breath ,• 
The bees, rejoicing o'er their summer toils, 
TJnnumber'd buds an' flow'rs' delicious spoils, 
Seal'd up with frugal care in massive waxen 

piles, 
Are doom'd by man, that tyrant o'er the weak, 
The death o' devils smoor'd wi' brimstone reek : 
The thundering guns are heard on ev'ry side, 
The wounded coveys, reeling, scatter wide ; 
The feather'd field-mates, bound by Nature's tie, 
Sires, mothers, children, in one carnage lie : 
(What warm, poetic heart, but inly bleeds, 
And execrates man's savage, ruthless deeds!) 
Nae mair the flow'r in field or meadow springs ; 
Nae mair the grove with airy concert rings, 
Except, perhaps, the robin's whistling glee, 
Proud o' the height o' some bit half-lang tree : 
The hoary morns precede the sunny days, 
Mild, calm, serene, wide spreads the noon-tide 

blaze, 
While thick the gossanaour waves wanton in the 

rays. 
'Twas in that season, when a simple bard, 
Unknown and poor, simplicity's reward, 
Ae night, within the ancient brugh of Ayr, 
By whim inspired, or haply prest wi' care, 
He left his bed, and took his wayward rout, 
And down by Simpson's 1 wheel' d the left about : 
(Whether impell'd by all-directing Fate, 
To witness what I after shall narrate ; 
Or whether, rapt in meditation high, 
He wander 'd out he knew not where nor why) 
The drowsy Dungeon-clock, 2 had numbered 

two, 
And Wallace Tow'r 2 had sworn the fact was 

true : 
The tide-swoln Firth, with sullen sounding 

roar, 
Through the still night dash'd hoarse along the 

shore. 
All else was hush'd as Nature's closed e'e : 
The silent moon shone high o'er tow'r and tree ; 
The chilly frost, beneath the silver beam, 
Crept, gently-crusting, o'er the glittering 



When, lo ! on either hand the list'ning Bard, 
The clanging sugh of whistling wings is heard ; 
Two dusky forms dart thro' the midnight air, 
Swift as the gos 3 drives on the wheeling hare ; 
Ane on th' Auld Brig his airy shape uproars, 
The ither flutters o'er the rising piers : 
Our warlock Rhymer instantly descry 'd 
The Sprites that owre the brigs of Ayr pre 

side. 
(That Bards are second-sighted is nae joke, 
And ken the lingo of the spVitual folk; 
Fays, Spunkies, Kelpies, a', they can explain 

them, 
And ev'n the vera deils they brawiy ken them. 



i A noted tavern at the auld Krv; end. 
2 The two steeples. s Theg-os-lmvk, o 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



<>U 



Auld Brig appeared of ancient Pictish race, 

Tlie very wrinkles gothic in his face : 

lie seem'd as he wi' Time had v/arstl'd lang, 

Yet. teughly doure, he bade an unco bang. 

N ew Brig was buskit in a braw new coat, 

That he at Lon'on, frae ane Adams, got ; 

In's hand five taper staves as smooth's a bead, 

Wi' virls and whirlygigums at the head. 

The Goth was stalking round with anxious 

search, 
Spying the time-worn flaws in ev'ry arch ; — 
It chanc'd his new-come neebor took his e'e, 
And e'en a vex'd and angry heart had he ! 
Wi' thieveless sneer to see his modish mien. 
He, down the water, gies him this guide' en: — 

AULD BRIG. 

I doubt na', frien', ye'll think ye'renae sheep- 
shank, 

Ance ye were streekit o'er frae bank to bank ! 

But gin ye be a brig as auld as me, 

Tho' faith, that day I doubt ye'll never see ; 

There'll be, if that date come, I'll wad a bod- 
dle, 

Some fewer whigmeleeries in your noddle. 

NEW BRIG. 

Auld Vandal, ye but show your little mense, 
Just much about it wi' your scanty sense ; 
Will your poor, narrow foot-path of a street, 
Where twa wheel-barrows tremble when they 

meet — 
Your ruin'd, formless bulk o' stane an' lime, 
Compare Avi' bonnie Brigs o' modern time ? 
There's men o' taste wou'd tak the Ducat- 
stream, 1 
Tho' they should cast the vera sark and swim, 
Ere they would grate their feelings wi' the 

view 
Of sic an ugly, Gothic hulk as you. 

AULD BRIG. 

Conceited gowk ! pufF'd up wi' windy 

pride ! — 
This mony a year I've stood the flood an' tide ; 
And tho' wi' crazy eild I'm sair forfairn, 
I'll be a Brig, when ye' re a shapeless cairn ! 
As yet ye little ken about the matter, 
But twa-three winters will inform ye better. 
When heavy, dark, continued a' -day rains, 
Wi' deepening deluges o'erflow the plains ; 
When from the hills where springs the brawling 

Coil, 
Or stately Lugar's mossy fountains boil, 
Or where the Greenock winds his moorland 

course, 
Or haunted Garpal 1 draws his feeble source, 



' A noted ford, just above the Auld Brig. 

* The hanks of Garpal Water is one of the few places in the 
West of Scotland, where those fancy-scaring beings, known by the 
unnn? of Ghaists, still continue pertma« iously to ir.habit. 



Arous'd by blust'ring winds an' spotting thowrs,. 
In mony a torrent down the snaw-broo rowes ; 
While crashing ice borne on the roaring speat, 
Sweeps dams an' mills, an' brigs, a' to the 

gate; 
And from Glenbuck, 1 down to the Ratton-key,' 
Auld Ayr is just one lengthen'd tumbling se:i — 
Then down ye'll hurl, deil nor ye never rise ! 
And dash the gumlie jaups up to tho pouring 

skies. 
A lesson sadly teaching, to your cost, 
That Architecture's noble art is lost ! 

NEW BRIG. 

Fine Architecture, trowth, I needs must say i 
o't! 
The L — d be thankit that we've tint the gate 

o't! 
Gaunt, ghastly, ghaist-alluring edifices, 
Hanging with threat'ning jut like precipices ; 
O'er-arching, mouldy, gloom-inspiring coves, 
Supporting roofs fantastic, stony groves : 
Windows, and doors in nameless sculpture drest., 
With order, symmetry, or taste unblest ; 
Forms like some bedlam Statuary's dream, 
The craz'd creations of misguided whim ; 
Forms might be worshipp'd on the bended 

knee, 
And still the second dread command be free, 
Their likeness is not found on earth, in air, or 

sea. 
Mansions that would disgrace the building 

taste 
Of any mason reptile, bird or beast ; 
Fit only for a doited monkish race, 
Or frosty maids forsworn the dear embrace; 
Or cuifs of latter times wha held the notion 
That sullen gloom was sterling true devotion : 
Fancies that our guid Brugh denies protection ! 
And soon may they expire, unblest with resur- 
rection ! 

AULD BRIG. 

ye, my dear-remember'd ancient yealings, 
Were ye but here to share my wounded feel- 
ings ! 
Ye worthy Proveses, an' mony a Bailie, 
Wha in the paths o' righteousness did toil ay ; 
Ye dainty Deacons and ye douce Conveeners, 
To whom our moderns are but causey-cleaners * 
Ye godly Councils wha hae blest this town ; 
Ye godly Brethren o' the sacred gown, 
Wha meekly gae your hurdles to the smiters ; 
And (what would now be strange) ye godij 

writers ; 
A' ye douce folk I've borne aboon the broo, 
Were ye but here, what would ye say or do ! 
How would your spirits groan in deep vexu 

tion, 
To see each melancholy alteration ; 



- The soujee of the riv er Ayt. 

" A small lajruung-piace above cbf Lv^ ten 



70 



THE POETICAL WOKICS 



A nd agonizing, curse the time and place 
When ye begat the base, degen'rate race ! 
Nae langer rev'rend men, their country's glory, 
In plain braid Scots hold forth a plain braid 

story ! 
Nae langer thrifty citizens an' douce, 
Meet owre a pint, or in the council-house ; 
But staumrel, corky-headed, graceless gentry, 
The herryment and ruin of the country ; 
Men, three parts made by tailors and by bar- 
bers, 
Wha waste your weel-hain'd gear on d — d new 
Brigs and Harbours ! 

NEW BRIG. 

Now haud you there ! for faith ye've said 

enough, 
And muckle mair than ye can mak to through, 
As for your Priesthood, I shall say but little, 
Corbies and Clergy are a shot right kittle : 
But under favour o' your langer beard, 
Abuse o' Magistrates might weel be spar'd : 
To liken them to your auld-warld squad, 
I must needs say, comparisons are odd. 
In Ayr, wag- wits nae mair can have a handle 
To mouth ' a citizen,' a term o' scandal ; 
Nae mair the Council waddles down the street, 
In all the pomp of ignorant conceit ; 
Men wha grew wise priggin' owre hops an' 

raisins, 
Or gather'd lib'ral views in bonds and seisins, 
If haply Knowledge, on a random tramp, 
Had shor'd them with a glimmer of his lamp, 
And would to Common-sense for once betray'd 

them, 
Plain, dull Stupidity stept kindly in to aid 

them. 



What farther clishmaclaver might been said 
What bloody wars, if Sprites had blood to shed, 
No man can tell ; but all before their sight, 
A fairy train appear' din order bright : 
Adown the glitt'ring stream they featlydanc'd ; 
Bright to the moon their various dresses 

glanc'd : 
They footed o'er the wat'ry glass so neat, 
The infant ice scarce bent beneath their feet : 
While arts of minstrelsy among them rung, 
And soul-ennobling bards heroic ditties sung. — 
had M'Lauchlan, 1 thairm-inspiring Sage, 
Been there to hear this heavenly band engage, 
When thro' his dear strathspeys they bore with 

highland rage ; 
Or when they struck old Scotia's melting airs, 
The lover's raptur'd joys or bleeding cares; 
How would his highland lug been nobler fir'd, 
And ev'n his matchless hand with finer touch 

inspir'd ! 



1 A well known perform/; 



No guess could tell what instrument appear 'd, 
But all the soul of Music's self was heard; 
Harmonious concert rung in every part, 
While simple melody pour'd moving on the 
heart. 

The Genius of the stream in front appears, 
A venerable Chief advanc'd in years ; 
His hoary head with water-lilies crown'd, 
His manly leg with garter tangle bound. 
Next came the loveliest pair in all the ring, 
Sweet Female Beauty hand in hand with 

Spring ; 
Then, crown'd with fiow'ry hay, came Rural 

And Summer, with his fervid-beaming eye : 
All-cheering Plenty, with her flowing horn, 
Led yellow Autumn, wreath' d with nodding 

corn; 
Then Winter's time-bleach' d locks did hoary 

show, 
By Hospitality with cloudless brow. 
Next follow' d Courage, with his martial stride, 
From where the Feal wild woody coverts hide; 
Benevolence, with mild, benignant air, 
A female form, came from the tow'rs of Stair: 
Learning and Worth in equal measures trode 
From simple Catrine, their long-lov'd abode: 
Last, white-rob'd Peace, crown'd with a hazel 

wreath, 
To rustic Agriculture did bequeath 
The broken iron instruments of death ; 
At sight of whom our Sprites forgat their kind- 
ling wrath 



LXXII. 



®i)e HBcatf) of iftofart Bunfcajs, 1Egq., 

OF ARNISTON, 

LATE LORD PRESIDENT OF THE COURT OB- 
SESSION. 



[At the request of Advocate Hay, Burns composed this Poem, in 
the hope that it might interest the powerful family of Dundas ir. 
his fortunes. 1 found it inserted in the hand-writing of the poet, in 
an interleaved copy of his Poems, which he presented to Dr. Geddes, 
accompanied by the following surly note : — " The foregoing Poem 
has some tolerable lines in it, but the incurable wound of my pride 
will not suffer me to correct, or even peruse it. I sent a copy of it 
with my best prose letter tothe son of the great man, the theme of the 
piece, by the hands of one of the noblest men in God's world, Alex- 
ander Wood, surgeon : when, behold ! his solicitorship took no more 
notice of my Poem, or of me, than I had been a strolling fiddler who 
had made free with his lady's name, for a silly new reel. Did the fel- 
low imagine that I looked for any dirty gratuity?" This Robert Dun- 
das was the elder brother of that Lord Melville to whose hands, soon 
after these lines were written, all the government patronage in Scot- 
land was confided, and who, when the name of Bums was men- 
tioned, pushed the wine to Pitt, and said nothing. The poem was 
hist printed by me, in 1834.] 

Lone on the bleaky hills the straying flocks 
bhun the fierce storms among the sheltering 
rocks ; 



OK HOBKRT HPRNA. 



71 



Down from the rivulets, red with dashing rains, 
The gathering iioods burst o'er the distant plains, 
Beneath the blasts the leafless forests groan ; 
The hollow caves return a sullen moan. 

Ye hills, ye plains, ye forests and ye caves, 
Ye howling winds, and wintry swelling waves ! 
Unheard, unseen, by human ear or eye, 
Sad to your sympathetic scenes I fly ; 
Where to the whistling blast and waters' roar 
Pale Scotia's recent wound I may deplore. 

O heavy loss, thy country ill could bear ! 

A loss these evil days can ne'er repair! 

Justice, the high vicegerent of her God, 

Her doubtful balance ey'd, and sway'd her rod ; 

Hearing the tidings of the fatal blow 

She sunk, abandon'd to the wildest woe. 

Wrongs, injuries, from many a darksome den, 
Now gay in hope explore the paths of men : 
See from this cavern grim Oppression rise, 
And throw on poverty his cruel eyes ; 
Keen on the helpless victim see him fly, 
And stifle, dark, the feebly-bursting cry : 

Mark ruffian Violence, distained with crimes, 
Rousing elate in these degenerate times ; 
View unsuspecting Innocence a prey, 
As guileful Fraud points out the erring way : 
While subtile Litigation's pliant tongue 
The life-blood equal sucks of Right and Wrong: 
Hark, injur'd Want recounts th' unlisten'd tale, 
And much-wrong' d Mis'ry pours th' unpitied 

wail ! 
Ye dark waste hills, and brown unsightly plains, 
To you I sing my grief-inspired strains : 
Ye tempests, rage ! ye turbid torrents, roll ! 
Ye suit the joyless tenor of my soul. 
Life's social haunts and pleasures I resign, 
Be nameless wilds and lonely wanderings mine, 
To mourn the woes my country must endure, 
That wound degenerate ages cannot cure. 



LXXIII. 

ON READING IN A NEWSPAPER 

€\)t Ifoatf) of So&n JW'Seoti, 3Egq., 

BROTHEtt. TO A YOUNG LADY, A PARTICULAR 
FRIEND OF THE AUTHOR'S. 



[John M'Leod was of the ancient family of Raza, and brother 
to that Isabella M'Leod, for whom Burns, in his correspondence, ex- 
pressed great regard. The little Poem, when first printed, consisted 
of six verses: I found a seventh in the M'Murdo Manuscripts, the 
fifth in this edition, along with an intimation in prose, that the 
M'Leod family had endured many unmerited misfortunes. I ob- 
serve that Sir Harris Nicolas has rejected this new verse, because, he 
says, it repeats the same sentiment as the one which precedes it. I 
thinl differently, and have retained it.] 



Sad thy tale, thou idle page, 
And rueful thy alarms : 



Death tears tiie brother of her lovo 
From Isabella's arms. 

Sweetly deckt with pearly dew 
The morning rose may blow ; 

But cold successive noontide blasts 
May lay its beauties low. 

Fair on Isabella's morn 
The sun propitious smil'd ; 

But, long ere noon, succeeding clouds 
Succeeding hopes begun" d. 

Fate oft tears the bosom cords 
That nature finest strung : 

So Isabella's heart was form'd, 
And so that heart was wrung. 

Were it in the poet's power, 
Strong as he shares the grief 

That pierces Isabella's heart, 
To give that heart relief! 

Dread Omnipotence, alone, 
Can heal the wound He gave , 

Can point the brimful grief-worn eyes 
To scenes beyond the grave. 

Virtue's blossoms there shall blow, 
And fear no withering blast ; 

There Isabella's spotless worth 
Shall happy fce at last. 



LXXIV 

2To 0L'm Eogan, 

WITH BEATTIE's POEMS FOR A NEW VEAR's 
GIFT. 



[Burns was fond of writing compliments in books, and giving there 
in presents among his fair friends. Miss Logan, of Park house, was 
sister to Major Logan, of Camlarg, and the " sentimental sister Su- 
sie," of the Epistle to her brother. Both these names were early 
dropped out of the poet's correspondence.] 



Again the silent wheels of time 
'. Their annual round have driv'n, 
And you, tho' scarce in maiden prime, 
Are so much nearer J Leav'n. 

No gifts have I from Indian coasts 

The infant year to hail : 
I send you more than India boasts 

In Edwin's simple tale. 



72 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



Our sex with guile and faithless love 
Is charg'd, perhaps, too true ; 

But may, dear maid, each lover prove 
An Edwin still to you ! 



LXXV. 

^l)c American 221 ar. 

A FRAGMENT. 



[Dr. Blair said that the policies of Burns smelt of the smithy, 
which, interpreted, means, that they were uiistatesman-like, and wor- 
thy of a country ale-house, and an audience of peasants. The Poem 
gives us a striking picture of the humorous and familiar way in 
which the hinds and husbandmen of Scotland handle national 
topics: the smithy is a favourite resort, during the winter evenings, of 
rustic politicians; and national affairs and parish scandal are alike 
discussed. Burns was in those days, and some time after, a vehement 
Tory : his admiration of " Chatham's Boy," called down on him the 
dusty indignation of the republican Hitson.l 



When Guildford good our pilot stood, 

And did our hellim thraw, man, 
Ae night, at tea, began a plea, 

Within America, man : 
Then up they gat the maskin-pat, 

And in the sea did jaw, man ; 
An' did nae less, in full Congress, 

Than quite refuse our law, man. 



Then thro' the lakes Montgomery takes, 

I wat he was na slaw, man ; 
Down Lowrie's burn he took a turn, 

And Carleton did ca', man ; 
But yet, what-reck, he, at Quebec, 

Montgomery-like did fa', man, 
Wi' sword in hand, before his band, 

Amang his en'mies a', man. 



Poor Tammy Gage, within a cage, 

Was kept at Boston ha', man ; 
Till Willie Howe took o'er the knowe 

For Philadelphia, man ; 
Wi' sword an' gun he thought a sin 

Guid Christian blood to draw, man ■ 
But at New York, wi' knife an' fork, 

Sir-loin he hacked sma', man. 



Burgoyne gaed up, like spur an' whip, 
Till Fraser brave did fa', man; 

Then lost his way, ae misty day. 
In Saratoga shaw, man, 



Cornwallis fought as lang's he dought. 

An' did the buckskins claw, man ,< 
But Clinton's glaive frae rust to save, 

He hung it to the wa'^ man. 



Then Montague, an' Guilford, too, 

Began to fear a fa', man ; 
And Sackville dour, wha stood the stouro. 

The German Chief to thraw, man : 
For Paddy Burke, like ony Turk, 

Nae mercy had at a' man ; 
An' Charlie Fox threw by the box, 

An' lows'd his tinkler jaw, man. 



Then Rockingham took up the game, 

Till death did on him ca', man ; 
When Shelburne meek held up his cheek, 

Conform to gospel law, man ; 
Saint Stephen's boys, wi' jarring noise, 

They did his measures thraw, man, 
For North an' Fox united stocks, 

An' bore him to tho wa\ man. 



Then clubs an' hearts were Charlie's carlo*. 

He swept the stakes awa', man, 
Till the diamond's ace, of Indian race, 

Led him a sair faux pas, man ; 
The Saxon lads, wi' loud placads, 

On Chatham's boy did ca', man ; 
An' Scotland dreAv her pipe, an' blew, 

' Up, Willie, waur them a', man !' 



Behind the throne then Grenville's gone, 

A secret word or twa, man ; 
While slee Dundas arous'd the class, 

Be-north the Roman wa', man : 
An' Chatham's wraith, in heavenly graith, 

(Inspired Bardies saw, man) 
Wi' kindling eyes cry'd ' Willie, rise ! 

' Would I hae fear'd them a', man V 



But, word an' blow, North, Fox, and Co., 

Gowffd Willie like a ba', man, 
Till Suthron raise, and coost their claisc 

Behind him in a raw, man ; 
An' Caledon threw by the drone, 

An' did her whittle draw, man ; 
An' swoor fu' rude, thro' dirt an' blood 

To make it guid in law, man. 



Or ROHftUT BURNS. 



73 



LXXVJ. 

&Ije Bean of iFarultg. 

A NEW BALLAD. 



t The Hal and Bob of these satiric lines were Henry Er9l:ine, and 
Robert Dundas : and their contention was, as the verses intimate, for 
the place of Dean of the Faculty of Advocates: Erskine was suc- 
omsful. It is supposed that in characterising Dundas, the poet re- 
membered " the incurable wound which his pride had gor." in the 
affair of the elegiac verses on the death of the elder Dundas. The 
toem first appeared in the Reliques of Burns. 



Dire was the hate at old Harlaw, 

That Scot to Scot did carry ; 
And dire the discord Langside saw, 

For beauteous, hapless Mary: 
But Scot with Scot ne'er met so hot, 

Or were more in fury seen, Sir, 
Than 'twixt Hal and Bob for the famous job - 

Who should be Faculty's Dean, Sir. — 



This Hal for genius, wit, and lore, 

Among the first was number'd ; 
But pious Bob, 'mid learning's store, 

Commandment tenth remember'd. — 
Yet simple Bob the victory got, 

And won his heart's desire ; 
Which shews that heaven can boil the pot, 

Though the devil p — s in the fire. — 



Squire Hal besides had in this case 

Pretensions rather brassy, 
For talents to deserve a place 

Are qualifications saucy ; 
So, their worships of the Faculty, 

Quite sick of merit's rudeness, 
Chose one who should owe it all, d'ye see, 

To their gratis grace and goodness. — 



As once on Pisgah purg'd was the sight 

Of a son of Circumcision, 
So may be, on this Pisgah height, 

Bob's purblind, mental vision : 
Nay, Bobby's mouth may be open'd yet 

Till for eloquence you hail him, 
And swear he has the Angel met 

That met the Ass of Balaam. 



LXXVIT. 

€o a 2U&n, 

With a Present of a Pair of lXn/rin/sr-d/asirn. 



[ To Mrs. M'Lehose, of Edinburgh, the poet presented the dttakm 
ing -glasses alluded to in the verses : they are, it seerns, still pre- 
served, and the lady on occasions of high festival, indulges, it is said, 
favourite nsitors with a draught from them of " The blood of SluTaz 
scorched vine."] 



Fair Empress of the Poet's soul, 

And Queen of Poetesses ; 
Clarinda, take this little boon, 

This humble pair of glasses. 

And fill them high with generous juico, 

As generous as your mind; 
And pledge me in the generous toast — 

" The whole of human kind !" 



" To those who love us!" — second fill ,• 
But not to those whom we love ; 

Lest we love those who love not us ! — 
A third — " to thee and me, love V r 



LXXVIII. 

2To €Iartntia. 



[This is the lady of the drimung-g,asses ; the Mrs. Mac oi 
many a toast among the poet's acquaintances. She was, in tho&? 
days, young and beautiful, and we fear a little giddy, since she in- 
dulged in that sentimental and platonic flirtation with tne poet, con- 
tained in the well-known letters to Clarinda. The letters, after the 
poet's death, appeared in print without her permission: she ob- 
tained an injunction against the publication, which still remains in 
force, but her anger seems to have been less a matter of taste th-ui 
of whim, for the injunction has been allowed to slumber in the care 
of some editors, though it has been enforced against others.] 



Clarinda, mistress of my soul, 

The measur'd time is run ! 
The wretch beneath the dreary pole 

So marks his latest sun. 

To what dark cave of frozen night 

Shall poor Sylvander hie ; 
Depriv'd of thee, his life and light, 

The sun of all his joy. 

We part — but, by these precious drops 

That fill thy lovely eyes ! 
No other light shall guide my steps 

Till thy bright beams arife. 



74 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



She, the fair sun of all her sex, 
Has blest my glorious day ; 

And shall a glimmering planet fix 
My worship to its ray ? 



LXXIX. 



Written hndtff the Portrait of Fergnsson, the Poet, in a copy 
Of that Author's works presented to a young Lady. 



i Who the young lady was to whom the poet presented the por- 
trait und Poems of the ill-fated Fergusson, we. have nut been told. 
T he verses are dated Edinburgh, March 19th, 171*7.1 



Curse on ungrateful man, that can be pleas r d, 
And yet can starve the author of the pleasure ! 
thou my elder brother in misfortune, 
By far my elder brother in the muses, 
With tears I pity thy unhappy fate ! 
Why is the bard unpitied by the world, 
Yet has so keen a relish of its pleasures ? 



LXXX. 

prologue 



SPOKEN BY MR. WOODS ON HIS BENEFIT NIGHT. 
Monday, 16 April, 1787. 



(The Woods for whom this Prologue was written, was in those 
days a popular actor in Edinburgh. He had other claims on Burns : 
he nfcd been the friend as well as comrade of poor Fergusson, and pos- 
sessed some poetical talent. He died in Edinburgh, December 14th, 



"When by a generous Public's kind acclaim, 
That dearest meed is granted — honest fan e ; 
When here your favour is the actor's lot, 
Nor even the man in private life forgot ; 
"What breast so dead to heavenly Virtue's glow, 
But heaves impassion'd with the grateful throe ? 

Poor is the task to please a barbarous throng, 
It needs no Siddons' powers in Southerne's song; 
But here an ancient nation fam'd afar, 
For genius, learning high, as great in war — 
Hail, Caledonia, name for ever dear ! 
Before whose sons I'm honoured to appear ! 
Where every science — every nobler art — 
That can inform the mind, or mend the heart, 



Tskrown; as grateful nations oft have found 
Far as the rude barbarian marks the bound. 
Philosophy, no idle pedant dream, 
Here holds her search by heaven-taught Hy- 
son's beam ; 
Here History paints, with elegance and force, 
The tide of Empires' fluctuating course ; 
Here Douglas forms wild Shakspeare into plan, 
And Harley 1 rouses all the god in man. 
When well-form'd taste and sparkling wit unite, 
With manly lore, or female beauty bright, 
(Beauty, where faultless symmetry and grace, 
Can only charm as in the second place,) 
Witness my heart, how oft with panting fear, 
As on this night, I've met these judges here ! 
But still the hope Experience taught to live, 
Equal to judge — you're candid to forgive. 
Nor hundred-headed Riot here we meet, 
With decency and law beneath his feet : 
Nor Insolence assumes fair Freedom's name \ 
Like Caledonians, you applaud or blame ; 

O Thou dread Power! whose Empire-giving 

hand 
Has oft been stretch' d to shield the honour 'd 

land! 
Strong may she glow with all her ancient fire ; 
May every son be worthy of his sire ; 
Firm may she rise with generous disdain 
At Tyranny's, or direr Pleasure's chain ; 
Still self-dependent in her native shore, 
Bold may she brave grim Danger's loudest roar, 
Till Fate the curtain drop on worlds to be no 

more. 



LXXXT. 



[This Sketch is a portion of a long Poem which Hums proposed t» 
call " The Poet's Progress." He communicated the little he had 
done, for he was a courter of opinions, to Dugald Stewart. *-' The 
Fragment forms," said he, " the postulata, the axioms, the definition 
of a character, which, if it appear at all, shall be placed in a variety el 
lights. This particular part I send you, merely as a sample ol my 
hand at pcrTsir. sketching." It is probable that the professor's re- 
sponse was not favourable, for we hear no more of the Poem.] 

A little, upright, pert, tart, tripping wight, 
And still his precious self his dear delight ; 
Who loves his own smart shadow in the streets 
Better than e'er the fairest she he meets : 
A man of fashion, too, he made his tour, 
Learn'd vive la bagatelle, et vive l'amour; 
So travell'd monkeys their grimace improve, 
Polish their grin, nay, sigh for ladies' love. 
Much specious lore, but little understood ; 
Veneering oft outshines the solid wood : 
His solid sense — by inches you must tell, 
But mete his cunning by the old Scots ell ; 
His meddling vanity, a busy fiend, 
Still making work his selfish craft must meivt 



i The Man of Feeling, by Mackenzie 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



75 



LXXXII. 
Zo i^ttjs. &cott, 

OF WAUCHOPE. 



jTlieady to whom t'nis epistle is addressed was a painter and a po- 
etess: her pencil sketches are said to have been beautiful ; and she had 
a ready skill in rhyme, as the verses addressed to Burns fully testify. 
Taste and poetry belonged to her family : she was the niece of M is. 
CockUirn, authoress of a beautiful variation of The Flowers of the 
Forest. 



I mind it weel in early date 

When I was beardless, young and blate, 

An' first could thresh the barn ; 
Or hand a yokin at the pleugh ; 
An' tho' forfoughten sair enough, 

Yet unco proud to learn : 
When first amang the yellow corn 

A man I reckon'd was, 
An' wi' the lave ilk merry morn 
Could rank my rig and lass, 
Still shearing, and clearing, 

The titlier stooked raw, 
Wi' claivers, an' haivers, 
Wearing the day awa. 

E'en then, a wish, I mind its pow'r, 
A wish that to my latest hour 

Shall strongly heave my breast, 
That I for poor auld Scotland's sake 
Some usefu' plan or beuk could make, 

Or sing a sang at least. 
The rough burr-thistle, spreading wide 

Amang the bearded bear, 
1 turn'd the weeder-clips aside, 
An' spar'd the symbol dear : 
No nation, no station, 

My envy e'er could raise, 
A Scot still, but blot still, 
I knew nae higher praise. 

But still the elements o' sang 

In formless jumble, right an' wrang, 

Wild floated in my brain ; 
'Till on that har'st I said before, 
My partner in the merry core, 

She rous'd the forming strain : 
I see her yet, the sonsie quean, 

That lighted up her jingle, 
Her witching smile, her pauky een 
That gartmy heart-strings tingle: 
I fired, inspired, 

At every kindling keek, 
But bashing and dashing 
I feared aye to speak. 

Health to the sex, ilk guid chiel says, 
Wi' merry dance in winter days, 

An' we to share in common: 

The gust o' joy, the balm of woe, 

The saul o' life, the heaven below, 

Is rapture-giving woman. 



Ye surly sum pi is, who hate the nam« 

Be mindfu' o' your mither t 
She, honest woman, may think shama 
That ye're connected with her, 
Ye're wae men, ye're nae men 
That slight the lovely dears; 
To shame ye, disclaim ye, 
Ilk honest birkie swears. 

For you, no bred to barn and byre, 
Wha sweetly tune the Scottish lyre, 

Thanks to you for your line : 
The marled plaid ye kindly spare, 
By me should gratefully be ware ; 

'Twad please me to the nine. 
I'd be mair vauntie o' my hap, 

Douce hingin' owre my curple 
Than ony ermine ever lap, 
Or proud imperial purple. 

Fareweel then, lang heal then 

An' plenty be your fa' ; 
May losses and crosses 
Ne'er at your hallan ca'. 



LXXXIIL 

@$HiU to TOlUam ©mcf). 



[A storm of rain detained Burns one day, during his border tout, 
at Selkirk, and he employed his time in writing this characteristic 
epistle to Creech, his bookseller. Creech was a person of education 
and taste : he was not only the most popular publisher in the north, 
but he was intimate with almost all the distinguished men who, i" 
those days, adorned Scottish literature. But though a joyous man, a 
lover of sociality, and the keeper of a good table, he was close and par- 
simonius, and loved to hold money to the last moment that the law 
allowed.! 



Selkirk, 13 May, 1787. 
Auld chukie Reekie's 1 sair distrest, 
Down droops her ance weel-burnisht crest, 
Nae joy her bonnie buskit nest 

Can yield ava, 
Her darling bird that shelo'es best, 

Willie's awa ! 

O Willie was a witty wight, 
And had o' things an unco slight ; 
Auld Reekie ay he keepit tight, 

An' trig an' braw : 
But now they'll busk her like a fright. 

Willie's awa! 

The stiffest o' them a' he bow'd ; 
The bauldest o' them a' he cow'dj 
They durst nae mair than he allow' d. 

That was a law ; 
We've lost a birkie weel worth gowd, 

Willie's awa ! 






THE POETICAL WORKS 



Now gawkies, tawpies, gowks, and fools, 
Frae colleges and boarding-schools, 
May sprout like simmer puddock-stools 

In glen or shaw ; 
He wha could brush them down to mools, 

Willie's awa ! 

The brethren o' the Commerce-Chaumer 1 
May mourn their loss wi' doolfu' clamour ; 
He was a dictionar and grammar 

Amang them a' ; 
[ fear they'll now mak mony a stammer, 

Willie's awa! 

Nae mair we see his levee door 
Philosophers and poets pour, 2 
And toothy critics by the score 

In bloody raw t 
The adjutant o' a' the core, 

Willie's awa! 

Now worthy Gregory's Latin face, 

Ty tier's and Greenfield's modest grace ; 

Mackenzie, Stewart, sic a brace 

As Rome ne'er saw ; 
They a' maun meet some ither place, 

Willie's awa ! 

Poor Burns — e'en Scotch drink canna quicken, 
He cheeps like some bewilder' d chicken, 
Scar'd frae its minnie and the cleckin 

By hoodie-craw ; 
Grief's gien his heart an unco kickin', 

Willie's awa ! 

Now ev'ry sour-mou'd girnin' blellum, 
And Calvin's fock, are fit to fell him ; 
And self-conceited critic skellum 

His quill may draw ; 
He wha could brawlie ward their bellum, 

Willie's awa ! 

Up wimpling stately Tweed I've sped, 
And Eden scenes on crystal Jed, 
And Ettrick banks now roaring red, 

While tempests blaw ; 
But every joy and pleasure's fled, 

Willie's awa ! 

May I be slander's common speech ; 
A text for infamy to preach ; 
And lastly, streekit out to bleach 

In winter snaw ; 
When I forget thee ! Willie Creech, 

Tho' far awa ! 

May never wicked fortune touzle him ! 
May never wicked man bamboozle him ! 
Until a pow as auld's Methusalem 

He canty claw! 
Then to the blessed New Jerusalem, 

Fleet wing awa ! 



1 The Chamber of Commerce hi Edinburgh, of which Creech was 
SecretAi-y. 

- :..9ny liicrary ^ntlcmen were accustomed to meet tA. Mr. 
Crwch'i house at breakfast. 



LXXXIV. 



$fum&U petition of aSruar 2®ate* 

TO THE 

NOBLE DURE OF ATHOLE. 



[The Falls of Bruar in Athole are exceedingly beautiful and pio 
turesque ; and their effect, when Burns visited them, was much im. 
paired by the want of shrubs and trees. This was in 1787: the poet, 
accompanied by his future biographer, Professor Walker, went, when 
close on twilight, to this romantic scene: "he threw himself," 
said the Professor, " on a heathy seat, and gave himself up to a 
tender, abstracted, and voluptuous enthusiasm of imagination. 
In a few days I received a letter from Inverness, for the poet 
had gone on his way, with the Petition enclosed." His Grace of 
Athole obeyed the injunction; the picturesque points are now 
crowned rtdth thriving woods, and the beauty of the Falls is Uiueti 
increased ] 



My Lord, I know your noble ear 

Woe ne'er assails in vain ; 
Embolden'd thus, I beg you'll hear 

Your humble slave complain, 
How saucy Phoebus' scorching beains^ 

In flaming summer-pride, 
Dry-withering, waste my foamy streams, 

And drink my crystal tide. 



The lightly-jumpin' glowrin' trouts, 

That thro' my waters play, 
If, in their random, wanton spouts, 

They near the margin stray ; 
If, hapless chance ! they linger lang, 

I'm scorching up so shallow, 
They're left the whitening stanes amang, 

In gasping death to wallow. 



Last day I grat wi' spite and teen, 

As Poet Burns came by, 
That to a bard I should be seen 

Wi' half my channel dry : 
A panegyric rhyme, I ween, 

Even as I was he shor'd me ; 
But had I in my glory been, 

He kneeling, wad ador'd me. 



Here, foaming down the shelvy rocks, 

In twisting strength I rin ; 
There, high my boiling torrent smokes, 

Wild-roaring o'er a linn : 
Enjoying large each spring and well, 

As Nature gave them me, 
I am, altho' I say't mysel, 

Worth gaun a mile to see. 



Would then my noble master please 
To grant my highest wishes, 

He'll shade my banks wi' tow' ring trees, 
And bonnie spreading bushes, 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



77 



Delighted doubly then, my Lord, 
You'll wander on my banks, 

And listen mony a grateful bird 
Return you tuneful thanks. 



The sober laverock, warbling wild, 

Shall to the skies aspire ; 
The gowdspink, music's gayest child, 

Shall sweetly join the choir : 
The blackbird strong, the lintwhite clear, 

The mavis mild and mellow ; 
The robin pensive autumn cheer, 

In all her locks of yellow. 



This, too, a covert shall insure 

To shield them from the storm ; 
And coward maukin sleep secure, 

Low in her grassy form : 
Here shall the shepherd make his seat, 

To weave his crown of How'rs; 
Or find a sheltering safe retreat 

From prone-descending show'rs. 



And here, by sweet endearing stealth, 

Shall meet the loving pair, 
Despising worlds with all their wealth 

As empty idle care. 
The flow'rs shall vie in all their charms 

The hour of heav'n to grace, 
And birks extend their fragrant arms 

To screen the dear embrace. 



Here haply too, at vernal dawn, 

Some musing bard may stray, 
And eye the smoking, dewy lawn, 

And misty mountain grey ; 
Or, by the reaper's nightly beam, 

Mild-chequering thro' the trees, 
Rave to my darkly-dashing stream, 

Hoarse-swelling on the breeze. 



Let lofty firs, and ashes cool, 

My lowly banks o'erspread, 
And view, deep-bending in the pool, 

Their shadows' wat'ry bed ! 
Let fragrant birks in woodbines drest 

My craggy cliffs adorn ; 
And, for the little songster's nest, 

The close embow'ring thorn. 



So may old Scotia's darling hope, 

Your little angel band, 
Spring, like their fathers, up to prop 

Their honour' d native land ! 



So may thro' Albion's farthest ken, 

To social-flowing glasses, 
The grace be — " Athole's honest men 

And Athole's bonnie lasses ?" 



LXXXV. 



Rearing gome ?MhUx=$q)x\ 

IN LOCH-TURIT. 



[When Burns wrote these touching lines, he was staying witA 
Sir William Murray, of Ochtertyre, during one of his Highland 
tours. Loch Turk is a wild lake among the recesses of the hills, aid 
was welcome from its loneliness to the heart of the poet.] 



Why, ye tenants of the lake, 
For me your wat'ry haunt forsake 9 
Tell me, fellow-creatures, why 
At my presence thus you fly ? 
Why disturb your social joys, 
Parent, filial, kindred ties ? — 
Common friend to you and me, 
Nature's gifts to all are free : • 
Peaceful keep your dimpling wave> 
Busy feed, or wanton lave : 
Or, beneath the sheltering rock, 
Bide the surging billow's shock. 

Conscious, blushing for our race, 
Soon, too soon, your fears I trace. 
Man, your proud usurping foe, 
Would be lord of all below : 
Plumes himself in Freedom's pride, 
Tyrant stern to all beside. 

The eagle, from the cliffy brow, 
Marking you his prey below, 
In his breast no pity dwells, 
Strong necessity compels : 
But man, to whom alone is giv'n 
A ray direct from pitying heav'n, 
Glories in his heart humane — 
And creatures for his pleasure slain. 

^ In these savage, liquid plains, 
Only known to wand' ring swains, 
Where the mossy riv'let strays, 
Far from human haunts and ways ; 
All on Nature you depend, 
And life's poor season peaceful spend. 

Or, if man's superior might 
Dare invade your native right. 
On the lofty ether borne, 
Man with all his pow'rs you scorn ; 
Swiftly seek, on clan°ing wings, 
Other lakes and other springs ; 
And the foe you cannot brave, 
Scorn at least to be his slave. 



7* 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



LXXXVI. 

Written tottf) a pencil, 

OVER THE CHIMNEY-PIECE, IN THE PARLOUB OF 
THE INN AT XENMORE, TAYMOUTH. 



[ The castle of Taymouth is the residence of the Earl of Bread-al- 
bane : it is a magnificent structure, contains many fine paintings : 
has some splendid old trees and romantic scenery.] 



Admiring Nature in her wildest grace, 
These northern scenes with weary feet I trace; 
O'er many a winding dale and painful steep, 
Th' abodes of covey' d grouse and timid 



My savage journey, curious, I pursue, 
'Till fam'd Breadalbane opens to my view. — 
The meeting cliffs each deep-sunk glen divides, 
The woods, wild scatter'd, clothe their ample 

sides ; 
Th' outstretching lake, embosom'd 'mong the 

hills, 
The eye with wonder and amazement fills ; 
The Tay, meand'ring sweet in infant pride, 
The palace, rising on its verdant side ; 
The lawns, wood-fring'd in Nature's native 

taste ; 
The hillocks, dropt in Nature's careless haste ; 
The arches, striding o'er the new-born-stream; 
The village, glittering in the noontide beam — 



Poetic ardours in my bosom swell, 
Lone wand'ring by the hermit's mossy cell : 
The sweeping theatre of hanging woods ; 
Th' incessant roar of headlong tumbling 
floods — 



Here Poesy might wake her heav'n-taught 

lyre, 
And look through Nature with creative fire ; 
Here, to the wrongs of fate half reconcil'd, 
Misfortune's lighten'd steps might wander 

wild ; 
And Disappointment, in these lonely bounds, 
Find balm to soothe her bitter — rankling 

wounds: 
Here heart-struck Grief might heav'nward 

stretch her scan, 
And injur'd Worth forget and pardon man. 



LXXXVII. 

WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL, 

£tant)mg fog t^e dpall of ipger*, 

NEAR LOCH-NESS. 



[This is one of tl'e many fine scenes, in the Celtic Parnassus o/ 
Ossian : but when Burns saw it the Highland passion of the stream 
was abated, for there had been no rain for some time to swell and 
send it pouring down its precipices in a way worthy of the scene. 
The descent of the water is about two hundred feet. There is another 
Fall further up the stream, very wild and savage, on which the 
Fyers makes three prodigious leaps into a deep gulf where nothing 
can be seen for the whirling foam and the agitated mist. 1 



Among the heathy hills and ragged woods 
The roaring Fyers pours his mossy floods ; 
Till full he dashes on the rocky mounds, 
Where, thro' a shapeless breach, his stream re- 
sounds, 
As high in air the bursting torrents flow, 
As deep -recoiling surges foam below, 
Prone down the rock the whitening sheet <i>- 



And viewless Echo's ear, astonish'd, rends. 
Dim seen, through rising mists and ceaselea>j 

show'rs, 
The hoary cavern, wide surrounding low'rs. 
Still thro' the gap the struggling river toils, 
And still below, the horrid cauldron boils - 



LXXXVTII 



POETICAL ADDRESS 



2To J&r. m. ®8tltt, 



WITH THE PRESENT OF THE BARD S PICTURE; 



[ When these verses were written there was much stately Jacobit- 
isrn about Edinburgh, and it is likely that Tytler, who laboured t» 
dispel the cloud of calumny which hung over the memory of Queen 
Mary, had a beai ir.g that way. Taste and talent have now de- 
scended in the Tytlers through three generations ; an uncommon 
event in families. The present edition of the Poem has been com- 
pleted from the original in the poet's handwriting.] 



Revered defender of beauteous Stuart, 

Of Stuart, a name once respected, 
A name, which to love, was once mark of a true 
heart, 

But now 'tis despis'd and neglected. 

Tho' something like moisture conglobes in my 
eye, 
Let no one misdeem me disloyal ; 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



70 



A poor friendless watid'ror may well claim a 
sigh, 

Still more, if that wand'rer were royal. 

My fathers that name have rever'd on a throne, 

My fathers have fallen to right it ; 
Those fathers would spurn their degenerate 
son, 

That name should he scoffingly slight it. 

Still in prayers for King George I most heartily 
join, 

The Queen, and the rest of the gentry, 
Be they wise, be they foolish, is nothing of mine ; 

Their title's avow'd by my country. 

But why of that epocha make such a fuss. 

That gave us th' Electoral stem ? 
If bringing them over was lucky for us, 

I'm sure 'twas as lucky for them. 

But loyalty truce ! we're on dangerous ground, 
Who knows how the fashions may alter ? 

The doctrine, to-day, that is loyalty sound, 
To-morrow may bring us a halter. 

I send you a trifle, the head of a bard, 

A trifle scarce worthy your care ; 
But accept it, good Sir, as a mark of regard, 

Sincere as a saint's dying prayer. 

Now life's chilly evening dim shades on your 

e y e > 
And ushers the long dreary night ; 
But you like the star that athwart gilds the 

sky, 
Your course to the latest is bright. 



LXXXTX. 

WRITTEN IN 

dFttatg-^arse ?#ermttaat, 

ON THE BANKS OF NITH. 
June, 1788. 

[first copy.] 



[The interleaved volume presented by Burns to Dr. Geddes, has 
enabled me to present the reader with the rough draught of this truly 
Deautiful Poem, the first-fruits perhaps of his intercourse with the 
anises of Nithside.l 



Thou whom chance may hither lead, 
Be thou clad in russet weed, 
Be thou deckt in silken stole, 
Grave these maxims on thy soul. 



Life is bu t a day at most, 

Sprung from night, in darkness lost ; 

Day, how rapid in its flight — 

Day, how few must see the night ; 

Hope not sunshine every hour, 

Fear not clouds will always lower. 

Happiness is but a name, 

Make content and ease thy aim. 

Ambition is a meteor gleam ; 

Fame a restless idle dream : 

Pleasures, insects on the wing 

Round Peace, the tenderest flower of Sprw:g$ 

Those that sip the dew alone, 

Make the butterflies thy own ; 

Those that would the bloom devour, 

Crush the locusts— save the flower. 

For the future be prepar'd, 

Guard wherever thou cans't guard ; 

But thy utmost duly done, 

Welcome what thou can'st not slum. 

Follies past, give thou to air, 

Make their consequence thy care : 

Keep the name of man in mind, 

And dishonour not thy kind. 

Reverence with lowly heart, 

Him whose wondrous work thou art ; 

Keep his goodness still in view, 

Thy trust — and thy example, too. 

Stranger, go ! Heaven be thy guide f 
Quod the Beadsman on Nithsido, 



xc 

WRITTEN IN 

ON NITHSIDE. 

December. 1788. 



[Of this Poem Burns thought so well that he gave away many 
copies in his own hand-writing : 1 have seen three. When oorrecbsd 
to his mind, and the manuscripts showed many changes and cor- 
rections, he published it in the new edition of his Poems as it 
stands in this second copy. The little Hermitage where these linei 
were written, stood in a lonely plantation belonging to the estate jf 
Friars-Carse, and close to the march-dyke of Ellisland ; a small door 
in the fence, of which the poet had the key, admitted him at pleasure, 
and there he found seclusion such as he liked, with flowers and 
shrubs all around him. The first twelve lines of the Poem were en- 
graved neatly on one of the window-panes, by the diamond pencil of 
the bard. On Riddel's death the Hermitage was allowed to go 
quietly to decay : I remember in 1803 turning two outlyer stotsout 
of the interior. | 

Thou whom chance may hither lead, 
Be thou clad in russet weed, 
Be thou deckt in silken stole, 
Grave these counsels on thy soul. 

Life is but a day at most, 
Sprung from night, in darkness lost : 
Hope not sunshine ev'ry hour, 
Fear not clouds will always lour. 



8() 



THE POETICAL WO&RS 



As Youth and Love with sprightly dance, 

Beneath thy morning star advance, 

Pleasure with her siren air 

May delude the thoughtless pair : 

Let Prudence Mess Enjoyment's cup, 

Then raptur'd sip, and sip it up. 

A;> thy day grows warm and high, 

Life's meridian flaming nigh, 

Dost thou spurn the humble vale ? 

Life's proud summits would'st thou scale ? 

Check thy climbing step, elate, 

Evils lurk in felon wait : 

Dangers, eagle-pinion' d, bold, 

Soar around each clifly hold, 

While cheerful peace, with linnet song, 

Chants the lowly dells among. 

As the shades of ev'ning close, 

Beck'ning thee to long repose ; 

As life itself becomes disease, 

Seek the chimney-nook of ease. 

There ruminate with sober thought, 

On all thou'st seen, and heard, and wrought : 

And teach the sportive younkers round, 

Saws of experience, sage and sound. 

Say, man's true genuine estimate, 

The grand criterion of his fate, 

Is not — Art thou high or low? 

Did thy fortune ebb or flow? 

Wast thou cottager or king ? 

Peer or peasant? — no such thing ! 

Did many talents gild thy span ? 

Or frugal nature grudge thee one ? 

Tell them, and press it on their mind, 

As thou thyself must shortly find, 

The smile or frown of awful Heav'n, 

To virtue or to vice is giv'n. 

Say, to bejust, and kind, and wise, 

There solid self-enjoyment lies ; 

That foolish, selfish, faithless ways 

Lead to the wretched, vile, and base. 

Thus resign'd and quiet, creep 

To the bed of lasting sleep ; 

Sleep, whence thou shalt ne'er awake, 

Night, where dawn shall never break, 

'Till future life, future no more, 

To light and joy the good restore, 

To light and joy unknown before. 

Stranger go ! Heav'n be thy guide ! 
Quod the beadsman of Nith-side. 



xcr 

Eo ©aptafo ftfoHel, 

OF GLENRIDT)EL. 

EXTEMPORE LINES ON RETURNING A NEWSPAPER. 



("Captain Riddel, the Laird of l'riars-Carse, was Burns'neighbour, <S 
Ellisland : he was a kind, hospitable man, and a good antiquary. The 
" News and Review" which he sent to the poet contained, I have 
heard, some sharp strictures on his works : Burns, with his usual 
strong sense, set the proper value upon all cotemporary criticism ; ge- 
nius, he knew, had nothing to fear from the folly or the malice of all 
such nameless " chippers and hewers." He demanded trial by his 
peers, and where were such to be found ?J 



Ellisland, Monday Evening. 

Your news and review, Sir, I've read through 
and through, Sir, 

With little admiring or blaming ; 
The papers are barren of home-news or foreign, 

No murders or rapes worth the naming. 

Our friends, the reviewers, those chippers and 
hewers, 

Are judges cf mortar and stone, Sir, 
But of meet or unmeet, in a fabric complete, 

I'll boldly pronounce they are none, Sir. 

My goose-quill too rude is to tell all your good- 
ness 
Bestow'd on your servant, the Poet ; 
Would to God I had one like a beam of the 
sun, 
And then all the world, Sir, should know it ' 



xcir. 

& Jftotfcer'g Eameitt 

FOB THE DEATH OF HEB SON. 



[«« The Mother's Lament," says the poet, in a copy of the vent* 
now before me, " was composed partly with a view to Mrs. Fergus- 
son of Craigdarroch, and partly to the worthy patroness of my early 
unknown muse.. Mrs. Stewart, of Afton."] 



Fate gave the word, the arrow sped, 

And pierc'd my darling's heart; 
And with him all the joys are fled 

Life can to me impart. 
By cruel hands the sapling drops, 

In dust dishonour'd laid : 
So fell the pride of all my hopes. 

My age's future shade. 



OF ROBERT BURNS 



81 



The mother-linnet in the brake 

Bewails her ravish d young; 
So I. for my lost darling's sake, 

Lament the live-day long. 
Death, oft I've fear'd thy fatal blow, 

Now, fond I hare my breast, 
O, do thou kindly lay me low 

With him I love, at rest ! 



XCIII. 

FIRST EPISTLE 

2fo Robert (fcraijsm, Itsq., 



[In his manuscript copy of this Epistle the poet says, "accompa- 
nying a request." What the request was the letter which enclosed it 
relates. Graham was one of the leading men of theexcise in Scotland, 
and had promised Burns a situation as exciseman : for this the poet 
had qualified himself ; and as he began to dread that farming would be 
unprofitable, he wrote to remind his patron of his promise, and re- 
quested to be appointed to a division in his own neighbourhood. He 
was appointed in due time: his division was extensive, and included 
ten parishes.) 



When Nature her great master-piece designed, 
And framd her last, best work, the human 

mind, 
Jler eye intent on all the mazy plan, 
She form'd of various parts the various man. 



Then first she calls the useful many forth ; 
Plain plodding industry, and sober worth: 
Thence peasants, farmers, native sons of earth 
And merchandize' whole genus take their 

birth : 
Each prudent cit a warm existence finds, 
And all mechanics' many-apron'd kinds. 
Some other rarer sorts are wanted yet, 
The lead and buoy are needful to the net ; 
The caput mortuum of gross desires 
Makes a material for mere knights and squires ; 
The martial phosphorus is taught to flow, 
She kneads the lumpish philosophic dough, 
Then marks th' unyielding mass with grave de- 
signs, 
Law, physic, politics, and deep divines : 
Last, she sublimes th' Aurora of the poles, 
The flashing elements of female souls. 



The order'd system fair before her stood, 
Nature, well pleas'd, pronoune'd it very good ; 
But ere she gave creating labour o'er, 
Bialf-jest, she tried one curious labour more. 
Some spumy, fiery, iynisfatuus matter, 
Such as the slightest bieath of air might scat- 
ter : 



With arch alacrity and conscious glee 
(Nature may have her whim as well as wo, 
Jler Hogarth-art perhaps she meant to show it I 
She forms the thing, and christens it— a poet. 
Creature, tho' oft the prey of care and sorrow, 
When blest to-day, unmindful of to-morrow. 
A being form'd t'amuse his graver friends, 
Admir'd and prais'd — and there the homage 

ends: 
A mortal quite unfit for fortune's strife, 
Yet oft the sport of all the ills of life ; 
Prone to enjoy each pleasure riches give, 
Yet haply wanting wherewithal to live; 
Longing to wipe each tear, to heal each groan, 
Yet frequent all unheeded in his own. 

But honest Nature is not quite a Turk, 
She laugh' d at first, then felt for her poor work. 
Pitying the propless climber of mankind, 
She cast about a standard tree to find ; 
And, to support his helpless woodbine state, 
Attach'd him to the generous truly great, 
A title, and the only one I claim, 
To lay strong hold for help on bounteous Gra- 
ham. 

Pity the tuneful muses' hapless train, 
Weak, timid landsmen on life's stormy main ! 
Their hearts no selfish stern absorbent stuff, 
That never gives — tho' humbly takes enough j 
The little fate allows, they share as soon, 
Unlike sage proverb'd wisdom's hard-wrung 

boon. 
The world were blest did bliss on them depend, 
Ah, that " the friendly e'er should want a 

friend !" 
Let prudence number o'er each sturdy son 
Who life and wisdom at one race begun. 
Who feel by reason and who give by rule, 
(Instinct's a brute, and sentiment a fool !) 
Who make poor will do wait upon / should — 
We own they're prudent, but who feels they're 

good ? 
Ye wise ones, hence ! ye hurt the social eye ! 
God's image rudely etch'd on base alloy ! 
But come ye who the godlike pleasure know, 
Heaven's attribute distinguished — to bestow ! 
Whose arms of love would grasp the human 

race : 
Come thou who giv'st with all a courtier's grace; 
Friend of my life, true patron of my rhymes ! 
Prop of my dearest hopes for future times. 
Why shrinks my soul half blushing, half afraid, 
Backward, abash'd to ask thy friendly aid ? 
I know my need, I know thy giving hand, 
I crave thy friendship at thy kind command ; 
But there are such who court the tuneful nine — 
Heavens ! should the branded character be 

mine ! 
Whose verse in manhood's pride sublimel} 

flows, 
Yet vilest reptiles in their begging prose. 
Mark, how their lofty independent spirit 
Soars on the spurning wing of injur'd merit ' 
Seek not the proofs in private life to find ; 
Pity the best of words should be but wind ! 



*2 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



So to heaven's gates the lark's shrill song as- 
cends, 

But grovelling on the earth the carol ends. 
In all the elam'rous cry of starving want, 
They dun benevolence with shameless front ; 
Oblige them, patronize their tinsel lays, 
They persecute you all your future days ! 
Ere my poor soul such deep damnation stain, 
My horny fist assume the plough again ; 
The pie-bald jacket let me patch once more; 
On eighteen-pence a week I've liv'd before. 
Tho', thanks to Heaven, I dare even that last 

sldft ! 
I trust, meantime, my boon is in thy gift : 
That plac'd by thee upon the wish'd-for height, 
Where, man and nature fairer in her sight, 
Mv muse may imp her wing for some sublimer 

flight. 



XCIV. 



ON THE DEATH OF 



hix Sanus Pointer aaiatr. 



[1 found these lines written with a pencil in one of Burns's memo- 
randum-books: he said he had just composed them, and pencilled 
them down lest they should escape from his memory. They differed 
ianothingfrom the printed copy of the first Liverpool edition. That 
they are by Burns there cannot be a doubt, though they were, I 
know not for what reason, excluded from several editions of the Post- 
humous Works of the poet.] 



The lamp of day with ill-presaging glare, 
Dim, cloudy, sunk beneath the western wave; 

Th' inconstant blast howl'd thro' the darkening 
air, 
And hollow whistled in the rocky cave. 

Lone as I wander'd by each cliff and dell, 

Once the lov'd haunts of Scotia's royal train ; : 

Or mus'd where limpid streams once hallow'd 
well, 2 
Or mould'ring ruins mark the sacred fane. 3 

Th' increasing blast roared round the beetling 
rocks, 
The clouds, swift-wing'd, flew o'er the starry 
sky, 
The groaning trees untimely shed their locks, 
And shooting meteors caught the startled 
eye. 

The paly moon rose in the livid east, 

And 'mong the cliffs disclos'd a stately form, 

In weeds of woe that frantic beat her breast, 
And mix'd her wailings with the raving 
storm. 



Wild to my heart the filial pulse9 glow, 

'Twas Caledonia's trophied shield I view d t 

Her form majestic droop'd in pensive woe, 
The lightning of her eye in tears imbued. 

j Revers'd that spear, redoubtable in war, 

Reclined that banner, erst in fields unfurl' d, 

i That like a deathful meteor gleam'd afar, 

And brav'd the mighty monarchs of tlie 
world. — > 



" My patriot son fills an untimely grave I" 

With accents wild and lifted arms — she cried; 
" Low lies the hand that oft was stretch' d to 
save, 
Low lies the heart that sweii'd with honest 
pride. 

u A weeping country joins a widow's tear, 
The helpless poor mix with the orphan's cry ; 

The drooping arts surround their patron's bier, 
And grateful science heaves the heart-felt 
sigh! 

" I saw my sons resume their ancient fire ; 

I saw fair freedom's blossoms richly blow : 
But ah ! how hope is born but to expire ! 
" Relentless fate has laid their guardian low. 

ee My patriot falls, but shall he He unsung, 
While empty greatness saves a worthless 
name ! 

No ; every muse shall join her tuneful tongue, 
And future ages hear his growing fame. 

** And I will join a mother's tender cares, 
Thro' future times to make his virtues last ; 

That distant years may boast of other Blairs !" — 
She said, and vanish' d with the sweeping 
blast. 



The King 3 Hark, 
' St Anthony's Well . 



Holyrood-house. 

3 St. Anthony's Chapel. 






xcv. 

3Eptetle to ?S?ug;h parfecr. 



[This little lively, biting epistle was addressed to one of the poet's 
Kilmarnock companions. Hugh Parker, was the brother of William 
Parker, one of the subscribers to the Edinburgh edition of Burns's 
Poems: he has been dead many years: the Epistle was recovered, 
luckily, from his papers, and printed for the first time in 1834.1 



In this strange land, this uncouth clime, 
A land unknown to prose or rhyme; 
Where words ne'er crost the muse's heckles, 
Nor limpet in poetic shackles : 
A land that prose did never view it, 
Except when drunk he stacher't thro' it J 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



83 



Here, ambusli'd by the chimla cheek, 

Hid in an atmosphere of reek, 

I hear a wheel thrum i' the neuk, 

I hear it — for in vain I leuk. — 

The red peat gleams, a fiery kernel, 

Enhusked by a fog infernal : 

Here, for my wonted rhyming raptures, 

I sit and count my sins by chapters ; 

For life and spunk like ither Christians, 

I'm dwindled down to mere existence, 

Wi' nae converse but Gallowa' bodies, 

Wi' nae kend face but Jenny Geddes. 1 

Jenny, my Pegasean pride ! 

Dowie she saunters down Nithside, 

And ay a westlin leuk she throws, 

While tears hap o'er her auld brown nose ! 

Was it for this, wi' canny care, 

Thou bure the Bard through many a shire ? 

At howes or hillocks never stumbled, 

And late or early never grumbled ? — 

O had I power like inclination, 

I'd heeze thee up a constellation, 

To canter with the Sagitarre, 

Or loup the ecliptic like a bar ; 

Or turn the pole like any arrow ; 

Or, when auld Phoebus bids good-morrow, 

Down the zodiac urge the race, 

And cast dirt on his godship's face ; 

For I could lay my bread and kail 

He'd ne'er cast saut upo' thy tail. — 

Wi' a' this care and a' this grief, 

And sma,' sma' prospect of relief, 

And nought but peat reek i' my head, 

How can I write what ye can read ? — 

Tarbolton, twenty-fourth o' June, 

Ye '11 find me in a better tune ; 

But till we meet and weet our whistle, 

Tak this excuse for nae epistle. 

Robert Burns. 



XCV1. 

INTENDED TO BE WRITTEN UNDER 

& Koble lead's picture. 



[Bums placed the portraits of Dr. Blacklock and the Earl of Glen- 
cairn, over his parlour chimney-piece at Ellisland: beneath the head 
of the latter he wrote some verses, which he sent to the Earl, and re- 
quested leave to make pu nlic. This seems to have been refused ; and, 
as the verses were lost for years, it was believed they were destroyed: 
a rough copy, however, ispreserved, and is now in the safe keeping of 
the Earl's name-son, Major James Glencairn Burns. James Cunning- 
ham, Earl of Glencairn, died 2oth January, 1791, aged 42 years: he 
was succeeded by his only and diildless brother, with whom this 
ancient race was closed.] 



Whose is that noble dauntless brow ? 

And whose that eye of fire ? 
And whose that generous princely mien, 

E'en rooted foes admire ? 



Stranger ! to justly show that brow, 

And mark that eye of fire, 
Would take His hand, whose vernal lilitfl 

His other works inspire. 

Bright as a cloudless summer sun, 

With stately port he moves; 
His guardian seraph eyes with awe 

The noble ward he loves — 
Among th' illustrious Scottish sons 

That chief thou may'st discern ; 
Mark Scotia's fond returning eye — 

It dwells upon Glencairn. 



XCVII. 

lElegg 
ON THE YEAR 1788, 

A SKETCH. 



[This Poem was first printed by Stewart, i n 1801. The poet kr.?3 
to indulge in such sarcastic sallies : it is full of character, andieflc*.i» 
a distinct image of those yeasty times.] 



For Lords or Kings I dinna mourn, 
E'en let them die — for that they're born : 
But oh ! prodigious to reflec' ! 
A Towmont, Sirs, is gane to wreck ! 
O Eighty-eight, in thy sma' space 
What dire events ha'e taken place ! 
Of what enjoyments thou hast reft us ! 
In what a pickle thou hast left us ! 

The Spanish empire's tint a-head, 
An' my auld teethless Bawtie's dead ; 
The tulzie's sair 'tween Pitt an' Fox, 
And our guid wife's wee birdie cocks ; 
The tane is game, a bluidie devil, 
But to the hen -birds unco civil : 
The tither's something dour o' treadin', 
But better stuff ne'er claw'd a midden— 
Ye ministers, come mount the pu'pit, 
An' cry till ye be hearse air roupet, 
For Eighty-eight he wish'd you weel, 
An' gied you a' baith gear an' meal ; 
E'en mony a plack, and niony a peck, 
Ye ken yoursels, for little feck ! 

Ye bonnie lasses, dight your e'en, 
For some o" you ha'e tint a frien' ; 
In Eighty-eight, ye ken, was ta'en, 
What ye'll ne'er ha'e to gie again. 

Observe the very iiowt an' sheep, 
How dowf and dowie now they creep • 
Nay, even the yirth itseP does cry, 
For embro' wells are grutten dry. 



84 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



O Eighty-nine, thou's but a bairn.. 

An" no owre auld, I hope, to learn! 

Thou beardless boy, I pray tak' care, 

Thou now has got "thy daddy's chair, 

Nae hand-cuff' d, mizl'd, hap-shackl'd Regent, 

But, like himsel' a full free agent. 

lie sure ye follow out the plan 

Nae waur than he did, honest man ! 

As muckle better as you can. 

January 1, 1789. 



XCVIII. 

duress to the toothache. 



[" I had intended," says Burns to Creech, 50th May, 1789, "to 
hflvt troubled you with a long letter, but at present the delightful 
•ensations of an omnipotent tooth-ache so engrosses all my inner 
man, as to put it out of my powei even to write nonsense." The 
poetic Address to the Toothache seems to belong to this period.] 



My curse upon thy venom'd stang, 
That shoots ray tortur'd gums alang ; 
And thro' ray lugs gies mony a twang, 

Wi' knawing vengeance ; 
Tearing my nerves wi' bitter pang, 

Like racking engines ! 

'When fevers burn, or ague freezes, 
Rheumatics gnaw, or cholic squeezes ; 
Our neighbours' sympathy may ease us, 

Wi' pitying moan ; 
But thee — thou hell o' a' diseases, 

Ay mocks our groan ! 

A down my beard the slavers trickle ! 
I kick the wee stools o'er the mickle, 
As round the fire the giglets keckle, 

To see me loup; 
While, raving mad, I wish a heckle 

Were in their doup. 

0' a' the num'rous human dools, 

111 har'sts, daft bargains, cutty-stools, 

Or worthy friends rak'd i' the mools, 

Sad sight to see ! 
The tricks o' knaves, or fash o' fools, 

Thou bears' t the gree. 

Where'er that place be priests ca' hell, 
Whence a' the tones o' mis'ry yell, 
And ranked plagues their numbers tell, 

In dreadfu' raw, 
Thou, Tooth-ache, surely bear'st the bell 

Among them a* ! 



O thou grim mischief-making chiei. 
That gars the notes of discord squeeL, 
'Till daft mankind aft dance a reel 

In gore a shoe-thick I- - 
Gie a' the facs o' Scotland's weal 

A towraond's Tooth-ache, 



XCIX 

©tic 

SACRED TO THE MEMOilY O V 

#trs3. <£sfoalt>, 

OF AUCHENCRUIVE. 



[Theorigin of this harsh effusion shows under what feelings Rnmf 
sometimes wrote. He was, he says, on his way to Ayrshire, on;. 
itormy day in January, and had made himself comfortable, in spite c 
the snow-drift, over a smoking bowl, at an inn at the Sanquhar, 
when in wheeled the whole funereal pageantry of Mrs. Oswald. He 
was obliged to mount his horse, and ride for quarters to New Cum- 
nock, where, over a good fire, he penned, in his very ungillant indig- 
nation, the Ode to the lady's memory. He lived to think better of 
the name.] 

Dweller in yon dungeon dark, 
Hangman of creation, mark ! 
"Who in widow-weeds appears, 
Laden with unhonoured years, 
Noosing with care a bursting purse, 
Baited with many a deadly curse ? 

STROPHE. 

View the wither'd beldam's face — 

Can thy keen inspection trace 

Aught of Humanity's sweet melting grace ? 

Note that eye, 'tis rheum o'erflows, 

Pity's flood there never rose. 

See these hands, ne'er stretch'd to save, 

Hands that took — but never gave. 

Keeper of Mammon's iron chest, 

Lo, there she goes, unpitied and unblest 

She goes, but not to realms of everlasting rest ! 

ANTISTROPHE. 

Plunderer of armies, lift thine eyes, 

(Awhile forbear, ye tort'ring fiends ;) 

Seest thou whose step, unwilling hither bends ? 

No fallen angel, hurl'd from upper skies : 

'Tis thy trusty quondam mate. 

Doom' d to share thy fiery fate, 

She, tardy, hell-ward plies. 



And are they of no more avail, 
Ten thousand glitt'ring pounds a-year 
In other words, can Mammon fail, 
Omnipotent as he is hero ? 







Adown my board the slave ■! 
i hn rw the woo stools o'eT the 
As round the tire lie gimlets fcec 

To see me Loup; 
While raving mad [wish a heck 
WeTe i-u. i heir do > . 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



85 



O, bitter mock'ry of tho pompous bier, 
While down the wretched vital part is driv'n! 
The cave-lodg'd beggar, with a conscience clear, 
Expires in rags, unknown, and goes to lleav'n. 



FRAGMENT INSCRIBED 



["It was late in life before Burns began to think very highly of Fok: 
he had hitherto spoken of him rather as a rattler of dice, and a fre- 
quenter of soft company, than as a statesman. As his hopes from the 
Tories vanished, he began to think of the Whigs: the first did no- 
thing, and the latter held out hopes ; and as hope, he said, was the 
cordial of the human heart, he continued to hope on.] 



How wisdom and folly meet, mix, and unite ; 

How virtue and vice blend their black and their 
Avhite ; 

How genius, th' illustrious father of fiction, 

Confounds rule and law, reconciles contradic- 
tion — 

I sing : if these mortals, the critics, should bus- 
tle, 

I care not, not I — let the critics go whistle ! 

But now for a patron, whose name and whose 

glory _ 
At once may illustrate and honour my story. 

Thou first of our orators, first of our wits ; 
Yet whose parts and acquirements seem mere 

lucky hits ; 
With knowledge so vast, and with judgment so 

strong, 
No man with the half of 'em e'er went far 

wrong ; 
With passions so potent, and fancies so bright, 
No man with the half of 'em e'er went quite 

right ;— 
A sorry, poor misbegot son of the muses, 
For using thy name offers fifty excuses. 

Good L — d, what is man? for as simple he 

looks, 
Do but try to develope his hooks and his 

crooks ; 
With his depths and his shallows, his good and 

his evil, 
All in all he's a problem must puzzle the devil. 

On his one ruling passion sir Pope hugely la- 
bours, 

That, like th' old Hebrew walking-switch, eats 
up its neighbours ; 

Mankind are his show-box — a friend, would you 
know him ? 

Pull the string, ruling passion the picture will 
shew him. 



What pity, in rearing so beauteous a system, 
One trifling particular, truth, should have miss'd 

him ; 
For spite of his fine theoretic positions. 
Mankind is a science defies definitions. 

Some sort all our qualities each to its tribe, 
And think human nature they truly describe ; 
Have you found this, or t'other ? there's more 

in the wind, 
As by one drunken fellow his comrades you'll 

find. 
But such is the flaw, or the depth of the plan, 
In the make of that wonderful creature, call'd 

man, 
No two virtues, whatever relation they claim, 
Nor even two different shades of the same, 
Though like as was ever twin brother to bro- 
ther, 
Possessing the one shall imply you've the other. 

But truce with abstraction, and truce with a 

muse, 
Whose rhymes you'll perhaps, Sir, ne'er deign 

to peruse : 
Will you leave your justings, your jars, and 

your quarrels, 
Contending with Billy for proud-nodding laurels. 
Mymuch-honor'd Patron, believe yourpoorpoetj 
Your courage much more than your prudence 

you show it, 
In vain with Squire Billy, for laurels you struggle, 
He'll have them by fair trade, if not, he will 

smuggle ; 
Not caeinets even of kings would conceal 'em, 
He'd up the back-stairs, and by G — he would 

steal 'em. 
Then feats like Squire Billy's you ne'er can 

achieve 'em ; 
It is not, outdo him, the task is, out-thieve him 



CI. 

ON SEEING 

& foountirt) ?^are 

LIMP BY ME, 
WHICH A FELLOW HAD JUST SHOT. 

f This Poem is founded on fact. A young man of the narr.e of 
Thomson told me — quite unconscious of the existence of the Poem 
— that while Burns lived at Ellisland— he shot at and hurt a hare, 
which in the twilight was feeding on his father's wheat-breard> Tha 
poet, on observing the hare come bleeding past him, " was in great 
wrath," said Thomson, " and cursed me, and said little hindered 
him from throwing me into the Nith; and he was able enough to dc 
it, though I was both young and strong." The boor of Nithside did 
not use the hare worse than the critical Dr. Gregory, of Edinburgh, 
us^d the Poem : when Burns read his remarks he said, " Gregory is 
a good man, but he crucifies me !"] 

Inhuman man ! curse on thy barb'rous art, 
And blasted be thy murder-aiming eje ; 
May never pity soothe thee with a sigh, 

Nor ever pleasure glad thy cruel heart : 

z 



B6 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



Go live, poor wandares of the wood and field ! 
The bitter little that of life remains: 
No more the thickening brakes and verdant 
plains 

To thee shall home, or food, or pastime yield. 

Seek, mangled wretch, some place of wonted 
rest, 
No more of rest, but now thy dying bed ! 
The sheltering rushes whistling o'er thy 
head, 
The cold earth with thy bloody bosom prest. 

Oft as by winding Nith, I, musing, wait 
The sober eve, or hail the cheerful dawn ; 
I'll miss thee sporting o'er the deAvy lawn, 

And curse the ruffian's aim, and mourn thy hap- 
less fate. 



CII. 

12T ANSWER TO A LETTER. 



[This blind scholar, though an indifferent Poet, was an excellent 
and generous man : he was foremost of the Edinburgh literati 
to admire the Poems of Bums, promote their fame, and advise that the 
author, instead of shipping himself for Jamaica, should come to 
Edinburgh and publish a new edition. The poet reverenced the name 
of Thomas Blacklock to the last hour of his life.— Henry Mackenzie, 
the Earl of Glencairn, and the Blind Bard were his three favourites.] 



Ellisland, 2\sl Oct. 1789. 
Wow, but your letter made me vauntie ! 
And are ye hale, and weel, and cantie ? 
I kenn'd it still your wee bit jauntie, 

Wad bring ye to : 
Lord send you ay as weel's I want ye, 

And then ye'll do. 

The ill-thief blaw the Heron south ! 
And never drink be near his drouth ! 
He tald mysel by word o' mouth, 

He'd tak my letter : 
[ lippen'd to the ehiel in tiouth, 

And bade nae better. 

But aiblins honest master Heron, 
liad at the time some dainty fair one, 
To ware his thcologic care on, 

And holy study ; 
And fcir'd o' sauls to waste his lear on, 

E'en tried the body. 



But what d'ye think, my trusty fier, 
I'm turn'd a ganger — Peace be here ! 
Parnassian queans, I fear, I fear, 

Ye 11 now disdain ino ! 
And then my fifty pounds a year 

Will little gain ma 



Ye glaiket, gleesome, dainty damfes, 

Wha, by Castalia's wimplin' streairaos, 
Lowp, sing, and lave your pretty iimbiea, 

Ye ken, ye ken, 
That Strang necessity supreme is 

'Mang sons o' men. 

I hae a wife and twa wee laddies, 

They maun hae brose and brats o' daddies i 

Ye ken yoursels my heart right proud is — 

I need na vaunt, 
But I'll sned besoms — thraw saugh woodien., 

Before they want. 

Lord help me thro' this warld o" care ! 
I'm weary sick o't late and air ! 
Not but I hae a richer share 

Than mony ithers ; 
But why should ae man better fare, 

And a' men blithers ? 

Come, firm Resolve, take thou the van, 
Thou stalk o' carl-hemp in man ! 
And let us mind, faint-heart ne'er wan 

A lady fair : 
Wha does the utmost that he can, 

Will whyles do mair. 

But to conclude my silly rhyme, 

(I'm scant o' verse, and scant o' time,) 

To make a happy fire-side clime 

To weans and wife, 
That's the true pathos and sublime 

Of human life. 

My compliments to sister Beckie ; 
And eke the same to honest Lucky, 
I wat she is a dainty chuckie, 

As e'er tread clay ; 
And gratefully, my guid auld cockie, 

I'm yours for ay. 

Robert Burns. 



cm. 

AN ODE. 



[These verses were first printed in the Star newspaper, in 'May. 1739 
It is said that one day a friend read to the poet some verses from the 
Star, composed on the pattern of Pope's Song, by a Person of Quality ; 
" These lines are beyond you," he added : " the muse of Kyle cannot 
match the muse of London." Bums mused a momett, and the- 
recited " Delia, an Odc"J 



Fair the face of orient day, 
Fair the tints of op'ning rose, 
But fairer still my Delia dawns, 
More lovely far her beauty blows. 



OF ROB BUT BURNS. 



87 



Sweet the lark's wild-warbled lay, 
Sweet the tinkling rill to hear ; 
But, Delia, more delightful still 
Steal thino accents on mine ear. 

The flower-enamoured busy bee 
The rosy banquet loves to sip ; 
Sweet the streamlet's limpid lapse 
To the sun-brown' d Arab's lip ; — 

But, Delia, on thy balmy lips 

Let me, no vagrant insect, rove ! 

O, let me steal one liquid kiss ! 

For, oh ! my soul is parched with love* 



CIV. 



(John M'Murdo, Esq., one of the chamberlains of the Duke of 
Queensbeny, lived at Drumlanrig: he was a high-minded, warm- 
hearted man, and much the friend of the poet. These lines accompa- 
nied a present of books : others were added soon afterwards on a pane 
of glass in Drumlanrig castle. 

" Blest be M'Murdo to his latest day ! 
No envious cloud o'ercast his evening ray ; 
No wrinkle furrowed by the hand of care, 
Nor ever sorrow add one silver hair ! 
O may no son the father's honour stain, 
Nor ever daughter give the mother pain." 

How fully the poet's wishes were fulfilled need not be told to any 
oue .icquainted with the family.] 



0, could I give thee India's wealth 

As I this trifle send ! 
Because thy joy in both would be 

To share them with a friend. 

But golden sands did never grace 

The Heliconian stream ; 
Then take what gold could never buy- 

An honest Bard's esteem. 



cv. 

prologue, 



SPOXSS AT THE THEATRE, DUMFRIES, 
1 Jan. 1790. 

[ This Prologue was written in December, 1789, for Mr, Sutherland, 
who recited it with applause in the little theatre of Dumfries, on 
new-year's night. Sir Harris Nicolas, however, has given to 
Ellisland the benefit of a theatre ! and to Bums the whole barony of 
Calswinton for a farm !] 



Tho', by-the-by, abroad why will you roam ? 
Good sense and taste are natives here at home 
But not for panegyric I appear, 
I come to wisli you all a good new year ! 
Old Father Time deputes me here before ye. 
Not for to preach, but tell his simple story : 
The sage grave ancient cough'd, and bade me 

say, 
" You're one year older this important day." 
If wiser, too — he hinted some suggestion, 
But 'twould be rude, you know, to ask the ques- 
tion ; 
And with a would-be roguish leer and wink, 
He bade me on you press this one word — 
" think !" 

Ye sprightly youths, quite flushed with hopo 

and spirit, 
Who think to storm the world by dint of merit, 
To you the dotard has a deal to say, 
In his sly, dry, sententious, proverb way ; 
He bids you mind, amid your thoughtless rattle, 
That the first blow is ever half the battle : 
That tho' some by the skirt may try to snatch 

him, 
Yet by the forelock is the hold to catch him ; 
That whether doing, suffering, or forbearing, 
You may do miracies by persevering. 

Last, tho' not least in love, ye youthful fair, 
Angelic forms, high Heaven's peculiar care ! 
To you old Bald-pate smooths his wrinkled 

brow, 
And humbly begs you'll mind the important 

now ! 
To crown your happiness he asks your leave, 
And offers bliss to give and to receive. 

For our sincere, tho' haply weak endeavours, 
With grateful pride we own your many favours ; 
And hoAvsoe'er our tongues may ill reveal it, 
Believe our glowing bosoms truly feel it. 



CVI. 

JScots prologue, 



FOR MR. SUTHERLAND S BENEFIT NIGHT, 
DUMFRIES. 



[Burns did not shine in Prologues : he produced some vigorous 
lines, but they did not come in harmony from his tongne, une the 
songs in which he recorded the loveliness of the dames of Caledonia. 
Sutherland was manager of the theatre, and a writer of rhymes. 
—Burns said his players were a very decent set : he had seen them an 
evening or two.] 



Mo song nor dance I bring from yon great city 
That queen's it o'er our taste — the m ore's the 
pitv ■ 



What needs this din about the town o' Lon'on, 
How this new play an' that new sang is 
couiin' ? 



88 



THE POETICAL WOIIKS 



Why is outlandish stuff sae meikle courted ? 
Does nonsense mend like whiskey, when im- 
ported ? 
Is there nae poet, burning keen for fame, 
Will try to gie us songs and plays at hame ? 
For comedy abroad he need nae toil, 
A fool and knave are plants of every soil ; 
Nor need he hunt as far as Rome and Greece 
To gather matter for a serious piece ; 
There's themes enough in Caledonian story, 
Would show the tragic muse in a' her glory.— - 

Is there no daring bard will rise, and tell 
How glorious Wallace stood, how hapless fell ? 
Where are the muses fled that could produce 
A drama worthy o' the name o' Bruce ; 
How here, even here, he first unsheath'd the 

sword, 
'Gainst mighty England and her guilty lord, 
And after mony a bloody, deathless doing, 
Wrench' d his dear country from the jaws of 

ruin ? 
for a Shakspeare or an Otway scene, 
To draw the lovely, hapless Scottish Queen ! 
Vain all th' omnipotence of female charms 
'Gainst headlong, ruthless, mad Rebellion's 

arms. 
She fell, but fell with spirit truly Roman, 
To glut the vengeance of a rival woman ; 
A woman — tho' the phrase may seem uncivil — 
As able and as cruel as the Devil ! 
One Douglas lives in Home's immortal page, 
But Douglases were heroes every age : 
And tho' your fathers, prodigal of life, 
A Douglas followed to the martial strife, 
Perhaps if bowls row right, and right succeeds, 
Ye yet may follow where a Douglas leads ! 

As ye hae generous done, if a' the land 
Would take the muses' servants by the hand ; 
Not only hear, but patronize, befriend them, 
And where ye justly can commend, commend 

them ; 
And aiblins when they winna stand the test, 
Wink hard and say the folks hae done their 

best! 
Would a' the land do this, then I'll be caution 
Ye'U soon hae poets o' the Scottish nation, 
Will gar fame blaw until her trumpet crack, 
And warsle time, an' lay him on his back ! 
For us and for our stage should ony spier, 
" V\ base aught thac chiels males a' this bustle 

here !" 
My best leg foremost, I'll set up my brow, 
We have the honour to belong to you ! 
We're your ain bairns, e'en guide us as ye like, 
But like good mithers, shore before ye strike. — 
And gratefu' still I hope ye'll ever find us, 
For a' the patronage and meikle kindness 
We've got frae a' professions, sets and ranks: 
Cod help us ! we're but poor — ye'se get but 






evir. 

SKETCH. 

Nefo Heat's* Mi 

TO MRS. DUNLOF, 



[This is a picture of the Dunlop family: it was printco from a 
hasty sketch, which the poet called extempore. The major whom lt 
mentions, was General Andrew Dunlop, who died in 1904: Rachel 
Dunlop was afterwards married to Koberrt Glasgow, Esq. Ano- 
ther of the Dunlops served with distinction in India, where he ros* 
to the rank of General. They were a gallant race, anda'l distin- 
guished.] 



This day, Time winds th' exhausted chain, 
To run the twelvemonth's length again : 
I see the old, bald-pated fellow. 
With ardent eyes, complexion sallow, 
Adjust the un impair' d machine, 
To wheel the equal, dull routine. 

The absent lover, minor heir, 

In vain assail him with their prayer ; 

Deaf as my friend, lie -sees them press, 

Nor makes the hour one moment Jess. 

Will you (the Major's with the hounds, 

The happy tenants share his rounds ; 

Coila's fair Rachel's care to-day, 

And blooming Keith's engaged with Gray) 

From housewife cares a minute borrow — 

— That grandchild's cap will do to-morrow- 

And join with me a moralizing, 

This day's propitious to be wise in. 

First, what did yesternight deliver ? 

" Another year is gone for ever." 

And what is this day's strong suggestion ? 

"The passing moment's all we rest on !" 

Rest on — for what ? what do we here ? 

Or why regard the passing year ? 

Will time, amus'd with proverb'd lore. 

Add to our date one minute more ? 

A few days may — a few years must — 

Repose us in the silent dust. 

Then is it wise to damp our bliss ? 

Yes — all such reasonings are amiss ! 

The voice of nature loudly cries, 

And many a message from the skies. 

That something in us never dies : 

That on this frail, uncertain state, 

Hang matters of eternal weight : 

That future life in worlds unknown 

Must take its hue from this alone; 

Whether as heavenly glory br^ht, 

Or dark as misery's woeful night. — 

Since then, my honor'd, first of friends 

On this poor being all depends, 

Let us th' important noiv employ, 

And live as those who never die. — 

Tho' you, with days and honours crown'd, 

Witness that filial circle round, 

(A sight, life's sorrows to repulse, 

A sight, pale envy to convulse,) 

Others now claim your chief regard '; 

Yourself, you wait your bright reward. 







o live poor wanderer of the wood and G Ld 
The bitter little that of life remains: 

s thee shed] borne .or I ' d, . c ; as time i Leld - 



OF KOKERT BURNS. 



89 



CVIJX 

©o a Gentleman 



WHO HAD 



gEUT HIM A NEWSPAPER, AND OFFEh.Zli TO 
CONTINUE IT FREE OF EXPENSE. 



[These sarcastic lines contain a too true picture of the times 'n 
which they were written. Though great changes have taken place in 
court and camp, yet Austria, Russia, and Prussia keep the tack of 

Poland: nobody says a word of Denmark : emasculated I taly is still 
singing; opera girls are still dancing ; but Chatham Will, glaiket 
Charlie, Daddie Burke, Royal George, and Georclie Wales have all 
passed to their account.] 



Kind Sir, I've read your paper through, 

And, faith, to me 'twas really new ! 

How guessed ye, Sir, what maist I wanted ? 

This mony a day I've grain' d and gaunted, 

To ken what French mischief was brewin'; 

Or what the drumlie Dutch were doin' ; 

That vile doup-skelper, Emperor Joseph, 

If Venus yet had got his nose off; 

Or how the collieshangie works 

Atween the Russians and the Turks ; 

Or if the Swede, before he halt, 

"Would play anither Charles the Twalfc: 

If Denmark, any body spak o't ; 

Or Poland, wha had now the- tack o'l} 

How cut-throat Prussian blades were hragin' 

How libbet Italy was singin' ; 

If Spaniard, Portuguese, or Swiss 

Were sayin' or takin' aught amiss : 

Or how our merry lads at hame, 

In Britain's court kept up the game : 

Plow royal George, the Lord leuk o'er him ! 

Was managing St. Stephen's quorum ; 

If sleekit Chatham Will was livin' ; 

Or glaikit Charlie got his nieve in ; 

How daddie Burke the plea was cookin', 

If Warren Hastings' neck was yeukin ; 

How cesses, stents, and fees were rax'd 

Or if bare a — s yet were tax'd ; 

The news o' princes, dukes, and earls, 

Pimps, sharpers, bawds, and opera girls; 

If that daft buckie, Geordie Wales, 

Was threshin still at hizzies' tails ; 

Or if he was grown oughtlins douser, 

And no a perfect kintra cooser. — 

A' this and mair I never heard of; 

And but for you I might despair' d of. 

So, gratofu', back your news I send you, 

And pray, a' guid things may attend you ! 

Eliisland, Monday morning. 1790. 



cix. 

A SATIRE. 
[FlftST VERSION.] 



[The history of this Poem is curious. M'Gill, one of tne n 
of Ayr, long suspected of entertaining heterodox opinions c 
original sin and the Trinity, published "A Practical Essay on the 
Death of Jesus Christ," which, in the opinion of the more rigid por- 
tion of his brethren, inclined both to Arianism and Socinianism. 
This Essay was denounced as heretical, by a minister of the name or 
Peebles, in a sermon preached November 5th, 1788, and all the v/esf. 
country was in a flame. The subject was brought before the Synod, 
and was warmly debated till M'Gill expressed his regret for the disquiet 
he had occasioned, explained away or apologized for the challenge!) 
passages in his Essay, and declared his adherence to the standard doc- 
trines of his mother church. Burns was prevailed upon to bring hi: 
satire to the aid of M'Gill, but he appears to have done so with le 
luctance.] 



Orthodox, orthodox, 
Wha believe in John Knox, 

Let me sound an alarm to your conscience 
There's a heretic blast 
Has been blawn in the wast, 

That what is no sense must be nonsense. 

Dr. Mac, 2 Dr. Mac, 

You should stretch on a rack, 
To strike evil doers wi' terror ; 

Ti join faith and sense 

Upon ony pretence, 
Is heretic, damnable error. 

Town of Ayr, town of Ayr, 

It was mad I declare, 
To meddle wi' mischief a-brewing ; 

Provost John 3 is still deaf 

To the church's relief, 
And orator Bob 4 is its ruin. 

D'rymple mild, 5 D'rymple mild, 
Tho' your heart's like a child, 

And your life like the new driven snaw. 
Yet that winna save ye, 
Auld Satan must have ye, 

For preaching that three's ane an' twa. 

Bumble John, 6 Rumble John, 
Mount the steps wi' a groan, 

Cry the book is wi" heresy cramm'd ; 
Then lug out your ladle, 
Deal brimstone like adie, 

And roar every note of the damn d. 

Simper James, 7 Simper James } 
Leave the fair Killie dames, 

There's a holier chase in your view \ 
I'll lay on your head, 
That the pack ye' 11 soon lead 

For puppies like you there's but few. 



i This poem was written a snort tim< 
'Gill s Essay. 

a Dr. M 'Gill. 3 John Ballon: 

» Of. Dab-ymDle. 6 Mr. UisselL 



Hint uie pubbjjition cf Dr 



» Ro^rt Afbcn. 
I Mr. rt'K.lnl(iy. 



90 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



Singet Sawney, 1 Singet Sawney, 

Are ye herding the penny, 
Unconscious what evil await ? 

Wi' a jump, yell, and howl, 

Alarm every soul, 
For the foul thief is just at your gate. 

Daddy Auld, 2 Daddy Auld, 

There's a tod in the fauld, 
A. tod meikle waur than the clerk ; 

Though ye can do little skaith, 

Ye'll be in at the death, 
And gif ye canna bite, ye may bark. 

Davie Bluster, 3 Davie Bluster, 

If for a saint ye do muster, 
The corps is no nice of recruits ; 

Yet to worth let's be just, 

Royal blood ye might boast, 
if the ass was the king of the brutes. 

Jamy Goose, 4 Jamy Goose, 

Ye ha'e made but toom rooaa, 
In hunting the wicked lieutenant \ 

But the Doctor's your mark, 

For the L — d's haly ark ; 
He lias cooper' d and oawd a wrang pip. in't. 

Poet Willie, 5 Poet Willie, 

Gie the Doctor a volley, 
Wi' your liberty's chain and your wit ; 

O'er Pegasus' side 

Ye ne'er laid astride, 
Ye but smelt, man, the place where he sh — t. 

Andro Gouk, 6 Andro Gouk, 

Ye may slander the book, 
And the book not the waur, let me tell ye ; 

Ye are rich, and look big, 

But lay by hat and wig, 
And ye'll ha'e a calf's head o' sma' value. 

Barr Steenie, 7 Barr Steenie, 

What mean ye, what mean ye ? 
If ye'll meddle nae mair wi' the matter, 

Ye may ha'e some pretence 

To havins and sense, 
Wi' people wha ken ye nae better. 

Irvine side, 8 Irvine side, 

Wi' your turkey-cock pride, 
Of manhood but sma' is your share, 

Ye've the figure, 'tis true, 

Even your faes will allow, 
And your friends they dare grant you nae mair. 



» Mr. Moodie, of Ricearton. « Mr. Auld, af Mauchllne. 

& Mr. Gjant, of Ochiltree. * Mr. Young, of Cumnock, 

6 Mr. Peebles, Ayr. « Dr. Andrew Mircr-ell, cf Monl-ton. 

* Mr. Stephen Young, of Barr. V. Mr George Smith, of Ga~-Mon. 



Muirland Jock, 1 Muirland Jocrf, 
When the L— d makes a rock 

To crush Common Sense for her sins, 
If ill manners were wit, 
There's no mortal so fit 

To confound the poor Doctor at anoe. 

Holy Will, 2 Holy Will, 
There was wit i' your skull, 

When ye pilfer' d the alms o' the poor ; 
The timmer is scant, 
When ye're ta'en for a saint, 

Wha should swing in a rape for an hour 

Calvin's sons, Calvin's sons, 
Seize your spir'tual guns, 

Ammunition you never can need ; 
Your hearts are the stuff, 
Will bepowther enough, 

And your skulls are storehouses o' lead. 

Poet Burns, Poet Burns, 

Wi' your priest-skelping turns, 

Why desert ye your auld native shire ? 
Your muse is a gipsie, 
E'en tho' she were tipsie, 

She could ca' us nae waur than we are. 



ex. 

A BALLAD. 
[SECOXD VERSION.] 



(.This version is from the papers of Miss Logan of Afton. The origix 
of the Poem is thus related to Graham of Fintry by the poet himself i 
" Though I daie say you have none of the solemn League and Cove- 
nant fire which shone so conspicuous in Lord George Gordon, and 
the Kilmarnock weavers, yet I think you must have heard of Dr. 
M 'Gill, one of the clergymen of Ayr, and his heretical book, God help 
him, poor man I Though one of the worthiest, as well as one of the 
ablest of the whole priesthood of the Kirk of Scotland, in every sense of 
that ambiguous term, yet the poor doctor and his numerous family 
are in imminent danger of being thrown out (f)th December, 17<)i> 
to the mercy of the winter winds. The enclosed ballad on that bu- 
siness, is, I coi. fess, too local: but I laughed myself at some conceits 
in it, though 1 am convinced in my conscience there area good many 
heavy stanzas in it too." The Kirk's Alarm was first printed by 
Stewart, in 1801. Cromek calls it, " A silly satire, on some worth)- 
;'.ie gospel, in Ayrshire."] 



Orthodox, orthodox, 
Who believe in John Knox, 

Let me sound an alarm to your conscience — 
There's a heretic blast, 
Has been blawn i' the wast, 

That what is not sense must be nonsense. 
Orthodox, 

That v hat is not sense must be nonsense. 



1 Mr. John Shepherd. Muirkuk. 

3 Holy Willie, alias Willia n Fisher, Elder in Mnuchiin. 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



91 



Doctor Mac, Doctor Mac, 

Ye should stretch on a rack, 
And strike evil doers wi' terror; 

To join faith and sense, 

Upon any pretence, 
Was heretic damnahle error, 

Doctor Mac, 
Was heretic damnable error. 



Town of Ayr, town of Ayr, 

It was rash I declare, 
To meddle wi' mischief a-brewing ; 

Provost John is still deaf 

To the church's relief, 
And orator Bob is its ruin, 

Town of Ayr, 
And orator Bob is its ruin. 



D'rymplemild, D'rymple mild, 
Tho' your heart's like a child, 

And your life like the new driven snaw, 
Yet that winna save ye, 
Old Satan must have ye 

For preaching that three's ane an' twa, 

D'rymple mild, 

For preaching that three's ane an' twa. 



Calvin's sons, Calvin's sons, 
Seize your spiritual guns, 

Ammunition ye never can need ; 
Your hearts are the stuff, 
"Will be powder enough, 

And your skulls are a storehouse of lead, 
Calvin's sons, 

And your skulls are a storehouse of lead. 



Rumble John, Rumble John, 
Mount the steps with a groan, 

Cry the book is with heresy craram'd ; 
Then lug out your ladle, 
Deal brimstone like aidle, 

And roar every note o' the damn'd,. 

Rumble John, 

And roar every note o' the damn'd. 



Simper James, Simper James, 
Leave the fair Killie dames, 

There's a holier chase in your view ; 
I'll lay on your head, 
That the pack ye'll soon lead, 

For puppies like you there's but few, 

Simper James, 

For puppies like you there's but few. 



Singet Sawnie, Singet Sawnie, 

Are ye herding the penny, 
Unconscious what danger awaits ? 

With a jump, yell, and howl, 

Alarm every soul, 
For Hannibal's just at your gates, 

Singet Sawnie, 
For Hannibal's just at your gates. 



Andrew Gowk, Andrew Gowk, 

Ye may slander the book, 
And thebooknought thewaur — letmetellyou 

Tho' ye're rich and look big, 

Yet lay by hat and wig, 
And ye'll hae a calf s-head o' sma' value, 

Andrew Gowk, 
And ye'll hae a calf's-head o' sma' value. 



Poet Willie, Poet Willie, 

Gie the doctor a volley, 
Wi' your " liberty's chain" and your wit; 

O'er Pegasus' side, 

Ye ne'er laid a stride 
Ye only stood by when he sh — , 

Poet Willie, 
Ye only stood by when he sh— . 



Barr Steenie, Barr Steenie, 
What mean ye? what mean ye? 

If ye'll meddle nae mair wi' the matter 
Ye may hae some pretence man, 
To havins and sense man, 

Wi' people that ken you nae better, 
Barr Steenie, 

Wi' people that ken you nae better. 



Jamie Goose, Jamie Goose, 

Ye hae made but toom roose, 
O' hunting the wicked lieutenant ; 

But the doctor's your mark, 

For the L — d's holy ark, 
He has cooper' d and ca'd a wrong pin in't, 

Jamie Goose, 
He has cooper 'd and ca'd a wrong pin in't.. 



Davie Bluster, Davie Bluster 
For a saunt if ye muster, 

It's a sign they're no nice o' recruits, 
Yet to worth let's be just, 
Royal blood ye might boast, 

If the ass were the king o' the brutes, 
Davie Bluster, 

If the ass were the king o' the brutes. 



THE POETICAL VTOUK& 



Muirland George, Muirland George, 
Whom the Lord made a scourge, 
To claw common sense for her sins ; 

If ill manners were wit, . 
f There's no mortal so fit, 

To confound the poor doctor at anee, 

Muirland George, 
To confound the poor doctor at ance. 



Cessnockside, Cessnockside, 
Wi' your turkey-cock pride, 

0' manhood but sma' is your share ; 
Ye've the figure, it's true, 
Even our faes maun allow, 

And your friends daurna say ye hae mair, 
Cessnockside, 

And your friends daurna say ye hae mair. 



Daddie Auld, Daddie Auld, 
There's a tod i' the fauld 

A tod meikle waur than the clerk ; * 
Tho' ye downa do skaith, 
Ye'll be in at the death, 

And if ye canna bite ye can bark, 

Daddie Auld, 

And if ye canna bite ye can bark. 



Poet Burns, Poet Burns, 

Wi' your priest-skelping turns, 

Why desert ye your auld native shire? 
Tho' your Muse is a gipsy, 
Yet were she even tipsy, 

The could ca' us nae waur than we are, 
Poet Burns, 

The could ca' us nae waur than we are. 



Af ton's Laird, Af ton's Laird, 

When your pen can be spar'd, 
A copy o' this I bequeath, 

On the same sicker score 

I mentioned before, 
To that trusty auld worthy Clackleith, 

Afton's Laird, 
To that trusty old worthy Clackleith. 



x Gavin Hamilton. 



exr. 



[These hasty verses are to be found in a letter addressed to Nicol. tsf 
the High School of Edinburgh by the poet, giving him an account of 
the unlooked-for death of his mare, Peg Nicholson, the successor o* 
Jenny Geddes. She had suffered both in the employ of the joyous priest 
and the thoughtless poet. She acquired her name from that frantic 
virago who attempted to murder George the Third.] 



Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare 

As ever trode on airn ; 
But now she's floating down the Nith, 

And past the mouth o' Cairn. 

Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare, 
And rode thro' thick and thin ; 

But now she's floating down the Nith. 
And wanting even the skin. 

Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare, 

And ance she bore a priest ; 
But now she's floating down the Nith, 

For Solway fish a feast. 

Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare, 
And the priest he rode her sair ; 

And much oppressed and bruised she was * 
As priest-rid cattle are, &c. &c. 



CXTT. 



Captain i$tatti)efo ^entsmon, 

A GENTLEMAN WHO HELD THE PATENT FOR 

HIS HONOURS IMMEDIATELY FROM 

ALMIGHTY GOD. 

" Should the poor be flattered ?" 

Shakspeare. 
But now his radiant a urse is run, 

For Matthew's course was bright ; 
His soul was like the glorious sun, 

A matchless heav'nly light ! 

[Capt&in Matthew Henderson, a gentleman of veiy agreeablo 
manners and great propriety of character, usually lived in Edin- 
burgh, dined constantly at Fortune's Tavern, and was a mem- 
ber of the Capillaire Club, which was composed of all who de- 
sired to be thought witty or joyous: he died in 1789: Bums, 
!n a note to the Poem, says, " I loved the man much, and have not 
flattered his memory." Henderson seems indeed to have been uni. 
vcrsally liked. " In our travelling party," says Sir James Campbell, 
of Ardkinglass, "was Matthew Henderson, then (1759) and after- 
wards well known and much esteemed in the town of Edinburgh ; 
at i./>at time an officer in the twenty-fifth regiment of foot, and like 
myself, on his way to join the army ; and 1 may say with truth, that 
In the course of a long life I have never known a more estimate 
character, than Matthew Henderson." Memoirs of Campbell, of 
Ardkinglass, p. 17.] 



O Death ! thou tyrant fell and bloody ! 
The meikle devil wi' a woodie 
Haurl thee hame to his black smiddie, 

O'er hurcheon hides, 
And like stock-fish come o'er his studdie 

Wi' thy auld sides ! 



OP .ROBERT BURNS. 



94 



He's gane ! he's gane ! he's frae us torn, 
The ae best fellow e'er was born ! 
Thee, Matthew, Nature's sel' shall mourn 

By wood and wild, 
Where, haply, pity strays forlorn, 

Frae man exil'd ! 

Ye hills ! near ncebors o' the starns, 
That proudly cock your cresting cairns ! 
Ye cliffs, the haunts of sailing yearns, 

Where echo slumbers ! 
Come join, ye Nature's sturdiest bairns, 

My wailing numbers ! 

Mourn, ilka grove the cushat kens ! 
Ye haz'lly shaws and briery dens ! 
Ye "burnies, wimplin' down your glens, 

Wi' toddlin din, 
Or foaming Strang, wi' hasty stens, 

Frae lin to lin ! 

Mourn, little harebells o'er the lea ; 
Ye stately foxgloves fair to see ; 
Ye woodbines, hanging bonnilie, 

In scented bow'rs ; 
Ye roses on your thorny tree, 

The first o' flow'rs. 

At dawn, when ev'ry grassy blade 
Droops with a diamond at its head, 
At ev'n, when beans their fragrance shed, 

I' th' rustling gale, 
Ye maukins whiddin thro' the glade, 

Come join my wail. 

Mourn, ye wee songsters o' the wood ; 
Ye grouse that crap the heather bud ; 
Ye curlews calling thro' a clud; 

Ye whistling plover ; 
An' mourn ye whirring paitrick brood ! — 

He's gane for ever ! 

Mourn, sooty coots, and speckled teals ; 
Ye fisher herons, watching eels : 
Ye duck and drake, wi' airy wheels 

Circling the lake ; 
Ye bitterns, till the quagmire reels, 

Rair for his sake. 

Mourn, clam'ring craiks at close o' day, 
'Mang fields o' flowering clover gay; 
And when ye wing your annual way 

Frae our cauld shore, 
Tell thae far warlds, wha lies in clay, 

Wham we deplore. 

Ye houlets, frae your ivy bow'r, 
In some auld tree, or eldritch tow'r, 
What tims the moon, wi' silent glowr, 

Sets up her horn, 
Wail tbro' the dreary midnight hour 

'Till waukrife morn ! 



O, rivers, forests, hills, and plains - 
Oft have ye heard my canty strains: 
But now, what else for me remains 

But talcs of woe ? 
And frae my een the drapping rains 

Maun ever flow. 

Mourn, spring, thou darling of the year ! 
Ilk cowslip cup shall kep a tear : 
Thou, simmer, while each corny spear 

Shoots up its head, 
Thy gay, green, flow'ry tresses shear 

For him that's dead J 

Thou, autumn, wi' thy yellow hair, 
In grief thy sallow mantle tear : 
Thou, winter, hurling thro' the air 

The roaring blast, 
Wide o'er the naked world declare 

The worth we've lost f 

Mourn him, thou sun, great source of light 
Mourn, empress of the silent night ! 
And you, ye twinkling starnies bright, 

My Matthew mourn ! 
For through your orbs he's ta'en his flight. 

Ne'er to return. 

O, Henderson ! the man — the brother ! 
And art thou gone, and gone for ever ? 
And hast thou crost that unknown river, 

Life's dreary bound ? 
Like thee, where shall I find another, 

The world around ? 

Go to your sculptur'd tombs, ye great, 
In a' the tinsel trash o' state ! 
But by thy honest turf I'll wait, 

Thou man of worth I 
And weep the ae best fellow's fate 

E'er lay in earth. 



€i)e lEpitapft. 

Biop, passenger! — my story's brief, 
And truth I shall relate, man ; 

I tell nae common tale o' grief — 
For Matthew was a great man. 

If thou uncommon merit hast, 

Yet spurn' d at fortune's door, man, 

A look of pity hither cast — 
For Matthew was a poor man. 

If thou a noble sodger art, 

That passest by this grave, maa, 

There moulders here a gallant heart. — 
For Matthew was a brave man. 



94 



THE POETICAL WORRS 



If thou on men, their works and ways, 
Canst throw uncommon light, man, 

Here lies wha weel had won thy praise- 
For Matthew was a bright man. 

If thou at friendship's sacred ca' 

Wad life itself resign, man, 
Thy sympathetic tear maun fa' — 

For Matthew was a kind man ! 

If thou art staunch without a stain, 
Like the unchanging blue, man, 

This was a kinsman o' thy ain — 
For Matthew was a true man. 

If thou hast wit, and fun, and fire, 
And ne'er guid wine did fear, man, 

This was thy billie, dam, and sire — 
For Matthew was a queer man. 

If ony whiggish whingin sot, 

To blame poor Matthew dare, man, 

May dool and sorrow be his lot ! 
For Matthew was a rare man. 



CXIII. 
SF&e iFfoe ^arltn*. 

A SCOTS BALLAD. 

Tune — Chevy Chase. 



[This is a local and a political Poem, composed on the contest be- 
tween Miller, the yrunger, of Dalswinton, and Johnstone, of West- 
erhall, for the representation of the Dumfries and Galloway district of 
Boroughs. Each town or borough speaks and acts in character: 
Maggy personates Dumfries; Marjory, Lnchmaben; Bess of Solway- 
side, Annan; Whiskey Jean, Kirkcudbright; and Black Joan, San- 
quhar. On the part of Miller, all the Whig interest of the Duke of 
Qneensberry was exerted, and all the Tory interest on the side of 
tii Johnstone: the poet's heart was with the latter. Annan and 
Lochmaben stood s-aunch by old names and old affections : after 
a contest, bitterer than anything of the kind remembered, the Whip 
interest prevailed.] 



There were five carlins in the south 

They fell upon a scheme, 
To send a lad to London town, 

To bring them tidings hame. 

Not only bring them tidings hame, 
Jiut do their errands there; 

A.nd aiblins gowd and honour baith 
Might be that laddie's sliare* 



There was Maggy by the banks o' Nita, 
A dame wi' pride eneugh; : 

And Marjory o' the mony lochs, 
A carlin auld and teugh. 

And blinkin' Bess of Annandale, 
That dwelt near Sol way-side : 

And whiskey Jean, that took her gill 
In Galloway sae wide. 

And black Joan, frae Crighton-pee'i, 

O' gipsy kith an' kin ; — 
Five wighter carlins were na found 

The south countrie within. 



To send a lad to London town, 

They met upon a day ; 
And mony a knight, and mony a laird, 

This errand fain wad gae. 

O mony a knight, and mony a laird, 

This errand fain wad gae ; 
But nae ane could their fancy please, 

O ne'er a ane but twae. 

The first ane was a belted knight, 

Bred of a border band; 
And he wad gae to London town, 

Might nae man him withstand. 

And he wad do their errands weel. 

And meikle he wad say ; 
And ilka ane about the court 

"Wad bid to him gude-day. 

The neist cam in a sodger youth, 
And spak wi' modest grace, 

And he wad gae to London town, 
If sae their pleasure was. 

He wad na hecht them courtly gifts, 
Nor meikle speech pretend ; 

But he wad hecht an honest heart . 
Wad ne'er desert his friend. 

Then wham to chuse, and wham refuse, 

At strife thir carlins fell ; 
For some had gentlefolks to please, 

And some wad please themsel. 

Then out spak mim-mou'd Meg o' Nitb* 

And she spak up wi' pride, 
And she wad send the sodger youth, 

Whatever might betide. 



For the auld ^udeman o' London court 

She didna care a pin ; 
But she wad send the sodger youth 

To greet his eldest son. 



■ 



OP ROBUttT BURNS. 



95 



Then slow raise Marjory o' the Lochs 

And wrinkled was her brow ; 
Her ancient weed was russet gray, 

Her auld Scot's heart was true. 

8 The London court set light by me — 

I set as light by them ; 
And I will send the sodger lad 
To shaw that court the same." 

Then up sprang Bess of Annandaie 

And swore a deadly aith, 
Says, " I will send the border-knight 

Spite o' you carlins baith. 

" For far-off fowls hae feathers fair, 

And fools o' change are fain ; 
But I hae try'd this border-knight, 

I'll try him yet again." 

Then whiskey Jean spak o'er her drink, 

" Ye weel ken, kimmers a', 
The auld gudeman o' London court, 

His back's been at the wa'. 

" And mony a friend that kiss'd his caup, 

Is now a fremit wight ; 
But it's ne'er be sae wi' whiskey Jean, — 

We'll send the border-knight." 

Says black Joan o' Crighton-peel 

A carlin stoor and grim, — 
" The auld gudeman, or the young gudeman, 

For me may sink or swim. 

<l For fools will prate o' right and wrang, 
While knaves laugh in their sleeve ; 

But wha blaws best the horn shall win, 
I'll speir nae courtier's leave." 

£o how this mighty plea may end 

There's naebody can tell : 
God grant the king, and ilka man, 

May look weel to himsel' ! 



CXIV. 



[This short Poeui was first published by Robert Chambers. It inti- 
mates pretty strongly, how much the poet disapproved of the change 
winch came over die Duke of Queensberry's opinions, when he sup- 
ported the right of the Prince of Wales to assume the government, 
without consent of Parliament, during the king's alarming illness 
in 178IJ.J 



The laddies by the banks o' Nith, 
Wad trust his Grace wi' a', Jamie, 

But he'll sair them, as he sair'd the King, 
Turn tail and rm awa', Jamie. 



Up and waur them a', Jamie, 

Up and waur them a' ; 
The Johnstones hae the guidin' o't, 

Ye turncoat Whigs awa'. 

The day be stude his country's friend, 
Or gied her faes a claw, Jamie : 

Or frae puir man a blessin' wan, 

That day the Duke ne'er saw, Jamie. 

But wha is he, his country's boast ? 

Like him there is na tvva, Jamie ; 
There's no a callant tents the kye, 

But kens o' Westerha', Jamie. 



To end the wark here's Whistlebirk, 1 
Lang may his whistle blaw, Jamie ; 

And Maxwell true o' sterling blue : 
And we'll be Johnstones a', Jamie. 



cxv 

EPISTLE 

&o Mofart Graham, lE-sq. 

or fintrv: 

ON" THE CLOSE OF THE DISPUTED ELECTION 

BETWEEN SIR JAMES JOHNSTONE 

AVD CAPTAIN MILLER, FOR THE DUMFRIES 

DISTRICT OF BOROUGHS. 



[" lam too little a man," said Burns, in the note to Finery, which ao 
com panied this Poem, " to have any political attachment : I am deeply 
indebted to, and have the warmest veneration for individuals of both 
parties : but a man who has it in his power to be the father of a coun- 
try, and who acts like his Grace of Queensberry, is a character that 
one cannot speak of with patience." This Epistle was first printed is 
my edition of Burns in 1834: I had the use of the Macmurdo and the 
Afton manuscripts for tnat purpose : to both families thenwi was 
much indebted for many acts of courtesy and kindness. 



Ftntrt, my stay in worldly strife, 
Friend 0' my muse, friend o' my life, 

Are ye as idle's lam? 
Come then, wi' uncouth, kintra fleg, 
O'er Pegasus I'll fling my leg, 

And ye shall see me try him. 

I'll sing the zeal Drumlanrig bears, 
Who left the all-important cares 

Of princes and their darlings j 
And, bent on winning borough towns, 
Came shaking hands wi' wabster lowns, 

And kissing barefit carlins. 



irkwhifltta: a Galloway Laird, at-' elector. 



96 



THE POKTICAL WORKS 



Combustion thro' our boroughs rode 
Whistling his roaring pack abroad 

Of mad unmuzzled lions ; 
As Queensberry buff and blue unfurled, 
And Westerha' and Hopeton hurled 

To every Whig defiance. 

But cautious Queensberry left the war, 
Th' unmanner'd dust might soil his star; 

Besides, he hated bleeding : 
But left behind him heroes bright, 
Heroes in Caesarean fight, 

Or Ciceronian pleading. 

O ! for a throat like huge Mons-meg, 
To muster o'er each ardent Whig 

Beneath Drumlanrig's banner ; 
Heroes and heroines commix, 
All in the field of politics, 

To win immortal honour. 

M'Murdo 1 and his lovely spouse, 

(Th' enamour'd laurels kiss her brows !) 

Led on the loves and graces : 
She won each gaping burgess' heart, 
While he, all-conquering, play'd his part 

Among their wives and lasses. 

Craigdarroch 2 led a light-arm'd corps, 
Tropes, metaphors and figures pour, 

Like Hecla streaming thunder : 
Glenriddel, 3 skill'd in rusty coins, 
Blew up each Tory r s dark designs, 

And bar'd the treason under. 

In either wing two champions fought, 
Redoubted Staig 4 who set at nought 

The wildest savage Tory : 
And "Welsh, 5 who ne'er yet flinch 1 d his ground, 
High-wav'd his magnum-bonum round 

With Cyclopeian fury. 

Miller brought up th' artillery ranks, 
The many-pounders of the Banks, 

Resistless desolation ! 
While Maxwelton, that baron bold, . 
'Mid Lawson's 6 port entrench' d his hold, 

And threaten' d worse damnation. 

To these what Tory hosts oppos'd, 
With these what Tory warriors clos'd, 

Surpasses my descriving: 
Squadrons extended long and large, 
With furious speed rush to the charge, 

Like raging devils driving. 

What verse can sing, what prose narrate, 
The butcher deeds of bloody fate 

Amid this mighty tulzie ! 
Grim Horror girn"d — pale Terror roar'd, 
As Murther at his thrapple shor'd, 

And hell mix'd in the brulzie. 



' Jonr, M'Murdo, Esq., of Drum Inn ri. <r. 
■■ Kergusson of Craigdarroch. 8 Riddel of Friars Carsc 
• Provost Staig of Dumfriet 6 sheritl Webb. 

8 A nine-merchant in Dumfries. 



As highland craigs by thunder cleft, 
When lightnings fire the stormy lilt, 

Hurl down with crashing rattle 
As flames among a hundred woods ; 
As headlong foam a hundred floods, 

Such is the rage of battle ! 

The stubborn Tories dare to die ; 
As soon the rooted oaks would fly 

Before th' approaching fellers ? 
The Whigs come on Like Ocean's roar, 
When all his wintry billows pour 

Against the Buchan Bullers. 

Lo, from the shades of Death's deep night, 
Departed Whigs enjoy the fight, 

And think on former daring : 
The muffled murtherer 1 of Charles 
The Magna Charta flag unfurls, 

All deadly gules it's bearing. 

Nor wanting ghosts of Tory fame, 

Bold Scrimgeour 2 follows gallant Graham, 7 

Auld Covenanters shiver. 
(Forgive, forgive, much wrong'd Montrose ! 
Now death and hell engulph thy foes, 

Thou liv'st on high for ever I) 

Still o'er the field the combat burns, 
The Tories, Whigs, give way by turns; 

But fate the word has spoken • 
For woman's wit and strength o' man, 
Alay ! can do but what they can ! 

The Tory ranks are broken. 

O that my een were flowing burns, 
My voice a lioness that mourns 

Her darling cubs' undoing ! 
That I might greet, that I might cry, 
While Tories fall, while Tories fly, 

And furious Whigs pursuing; I 

What Whig but melts for good Sir James? 
Dear to his country by the names 

Friend, patron, benefactor 1 
Not Pulteney's wealth can Pulteney save ! 
And Hopeton falls, the generous brave ! 

And Stewart 4 bold as Hector. 

Thou, Pitt, shalt rue this overthrow ; 
And Thurlow growl a curse of woe ; 

And Melville melt in wailing 1 
How Fox and Sheridan rejoice ! 
And Burke shall sing, O Prince, arise, 

Thy power is all prevailing ! 

For your poor friend, the Bard, afar 
He only hears and sees the war, 

A cool spectator purely ; 
So, when the storm the forest rends, 
The robin in the hedge descends, 

And sober chirps securely. 



1 The executioner of Charles I. v/asmaske 
-! Scrimgeour, Lor Qtjidee. ^Graham, Marquis „n M> 

< Stewart of HillsidA 




> 

- I 



- 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



97 



CXVI. 

ON 

©aptatn (Sroge'* 

PEREGRINATIONS THROUGH SCOTLAND, 

COLLECTING THE 

ANTIQUITIES OF THAT KINGDOM. 



[This " fine, fat, fodgel wight" was a clever man, a skilful anti- 
quary, and fond of wit and wine. He was well acquainted with he- 
raldry, and was conversant with the weapons and the armour of his 
own and other countries. He found his way to Friai's Carse, in the 
Vale of Nith, and there, at the social " board of Glenriddel," for 
the first time saw Burns. The Englishman heard, it is said, with 
wonder, the sarcastic sallies and eloquent bursts of the inspired 
Scot, who, in his turn, surveyed with wonder the remarkable 
corpulence, and listened with pleasure to the independent sentiments 
and humorous turns of conversation in the joyous Englishman. This 
Poem was the fruit of fhe interview, and it is said that Grose re- 
garded some passages as rather personal.] 



Hear, Land o' Cakes, and brither Scots, 
Frae Maidenkirk to Johnny Groat's ; 
If there's a hole in a' your coats, 

I rede you tent it : 
A chiel's amang you taking notes, 

And, faith, he'll prent i& ! 

If in your bounds ye chance to light 

Upon a fine, fat, fodgel wight, 

O' stature short, but genius bright, 

That's he, mark wee! - 
And wow ! he has an unco slight 

O' cauk and keel. 

By some auld, houlet-haunted biggin, 

Or kirk deserted by its riggin, 

It's ten to one ye'll find him snug in 

Some eldritch part, 
Wi' deils, they say, L — d safe's, colleaguin' 

At some black art. 

Ilk ghaist that haunts auld ha' or chamer, 

Ye gipsey-gang that deal in glamor, 

And you deep read in hell's black grammar, 

Warlocks and witches ; 
Yo'll quake at his conjuring hammer, 

Ye midnight b es ! 

It's tauld he was a sodger bred, 
And ane wad rather fa'n than fled ; 
But now he's quat the spurtle-blade, 

And dog-skin wallet, 
And ta'en the — Antiquarian trade, 

I think they call it. 

He has a fouth o' auld nick-nackets : 
Rusty airn caps and jinglin jackets, 
Wad baud the Lothians three in tackets, 

A towmont guid ; 
And parritch-pats, and auld saut-backets, 

Afore the flood. 



Of Eve's first fire he has a cinder ; 
Auld Tubalcain's fire-shool and fender ; 
That which distinguished the gender 

O' Balaam's ass ; 
A broom-stick o' the witch o' Endor, 

Weel shod wi' brass. 

Forbye, he'll shape you afF, fu' gleg, 
The cut of Adam's philibeg : 
The knife that nicket Abel's craig 

He'll prove you fully, 
It was a faulding jocteleg, 

Or lang-kail gully. — 

But wad ye see him in his glee, 
For meikle glee, and fun has he, 
Then set him down, and twa or three 

Guid fellows wi' him ; 
And port, O port ! shine thou a wee, 

And then ye'll see him f 

Now, by the pow'rs o' verse and prose ! 
Thou art a dainty chiel, O Grose ! — 
Whae'er o' thee shall ill suppose, 

They sair misca' thee ; 
I'd take the rascal by the nose, 

"Wad say, Shame fa' thee. 



CXVII. 

WRITTEN IN A WRAPPER, 

ENCLOSING 

® Ector to ©aptatn <&xo$t. 



[Burns wrote out some antiquarian and legendary memoranda 
respecting certain ruins in Kyle, and enclosed them in a sheet of papei 
to Cardonnel, a northern antiquary. As his mind teemed with po- 
etry, he could not, as he afterwards said, let the opportunity pass tit 
sending a rhyming enquiry after his fat friend, and Cardonne* 
spread the condoling enquiry over the North — 
" Is he slain by Highlan' bodies t 
And eaten like a wether-haggis ?"| 



Ken ye ought o' Captain Grose ? 

Igo and ago, 
If he's amang his friends or foes ? 

Iram, coram, dago. 

Is he south or is he north ? 

Igo and ago, 
Or drowned in the river Forth ? 

Iram, coram, dago. 

Is he slain by Highlan' bodies ? 

Igo and ago, 
And eaten like a wether-haggis ? 

Iram, coram, dago. 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



9i> 



That hour, o' night's black arch the key-stane, 
That dreary hour he mounts his beast in ; 
And sic a night he taks the road in 
As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in. 



The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last ; 
The rattlmg show'rs rose on the blast ; 
The speedy gleams the darkness swallow'd ; 
Loud, deep, and lang the thunder bellow'd : 
That night, a child might understand, 
The de'il had business on his hand. 



Weel mounted on his grey mare, Meg, 
A better never lifted leg, 
Tarn skelpit on thro' dub and mire, 
Despising wind, and rain, and fire ; 
Whiles holding fast his guid blue bonnet ; 
Whiles crooning o'er some auld Scots sonnet 
Whiles glow'ring round wi' prudent cares, 
Lest bogles catch him unawares ; 
Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh, 
Whare ghaistsand houlets nightly cry. — 



By this time he was cross the ford, 
Whare in the snaw the chapman smoor'd ; 
And past the birks and meikle stane, 
Where drunken Charlie brak's neck-bane ; 
And thro' the whins, and by the cairn, 
Where hunters fand the murder' d bairn; 
And near the thorn, aboon the well, 
Where Mungo's mither hang'd hersel. 
Before him Doon pours all his floods ; 
The doubling storm roars thro' the woods ; 
The lightnings flash from pole to pole ; 
Near and more near the thunders roll ; 
When, glimmering thro' the groaning trees, 
Kirk-Alloway seem'd in a-bleeze; 
Thro' ilka bore the beams were glancing; 
And loud resounded mirth and dancing. 

Inspiring bold John Barleycorn ! 

What dangers thou canst make us scorn ! 

Wi' tippenny, we fear nae evil; 

Wi' usquabae we'll face the devil! — 

The swats sae ream'd in Tammie's noddle, 

Fair play, he car'd nae deils a boddle. 

But Maggie stood right sair astonish'd, 

'Till, by the heel and hand admonish'd, 

She ventur'd forward on the light ; 

And wow ! Tarn saw an unco sight ! 

Warlocks and witches in a dance ; 

Nae cotillion brent new frae France, 

But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels, 

Put life and mettle in their heels : 

A winnock-bunker in the east, 

There sat auld Nick, in shape o' beast ; 

A towzie tyke, black, grim, and large, 

To gie them music was his charge ; 

He screw' d the pipes and gart them skirl, 

Till roof and rafters a' did dirl. — 

Coffins stood round, like open presses ; 

That slum 'd the dead in their last dresses ; 



And by some devilish cantrip slight 
Each in its cauld hand held a light- 
By which heroic Tarn was able 
To note upon the haly table, 
A murderer's banes in gibbet aims ; 
Twa span-lang, wee unchristen'd bairns .• 
A thief, new-cutted frae a rape, 
Wi' his last gasp his gab did gape ; 
Five tomahawks, wi' bluid red-rusted; 
Five scimitars, wi' murder crusted ; 
A garter, which a babe had strangled ; 
A knife, a father's throat had mangled, 
Whom his ain son o' life bereft, 
The gray hairs yet stack to the heft : l 
Wi' mair o' horrible and awfu', 
Which ev'n to name wad be unlawfu'. 

AsTammie glowr'd, amaz'd, and curious, 

The mirth and fun grew fast and furious : 

The piper loud and louder blew; 

The dancers quick and quicker flew ; 

They reel'd, they set, they cross' d, they cleeki 

'Till ilka carlin swat and reekit, 

And coost her duddies to the wark, 

And linket at it in her sark I 



Now Tarn, Tarn ! had thae been queans 
A' plump and strapping, in their teens ; 
Their sarks instead o' creeshie flannen, 
Been snaw-white seventeen hunder linen 
Thir breeks o' mine, my only pair, 
That ance were plush, o' guid blue hair 
I wad hae gi'en them off my hurdies, 
For ae blink o' the bonnie burdies! 

But wither' d beldams, auld and droll 
Bigwoodie hags, wad spean a foal, 
Lowping an' flinging on a cummock, 
I wonder didna turn thy stomach. 

But Tarn kenn'd what was what fu* brawlie, 
There was ae winsome wench and walie,- 
That night inlisted in the core, 
(Lang after kenn'd on Carrick shore; 
For mony a beast to dead she shot 
And perish'd mony a bonnie boat, 
And shook baith meikle corn and bear, 
And kept the country-side in fear), 
Her cutty sark, o' Paisley harn, 
That while a lassie she had worn, 
In longitude tho' sorely scanty, 
It was her best, and she was vauntie — 
Ah ! little kenn'd thy reverend grannie, 
That sark she cofl for her wee Nannie, 
Wi' twapund Sv-ots ('twas a' her riches), 
Wad ever grae'd a dance of witches ! 



1 VARIATION. 

Three lawyers' tongues turned inside out, 
Wi' lies seam'd like a beggar's clout; 
And priests hearts rotten black as nwitif, 
Lay stinking vile, in every ncuk. 



LofC. 



i 00 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



But here my muse her wing maun cour 
Sic flights are far beyond her pow'r ; 
To sing how Nannie lap and flang, 
V A souple jade she was and Strang,) 
And how Tam stood, like ane bewitch'd, 
And thought his very een enrich'd ; 
Even Satan glowr'd, and fidg'd fu' fain, 
And hotch'd and blew wi' might and main : 
'Till first ae caper, syne anither, 
Tam tint his reason a' thegither, 
And roai'S out, " Weel done, Cutty-sark IV 
And in an instant all was dark : 
And scarcely had he Maggie rallied, 
When out the hellish legion sallied. 



As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke, 

When plundering herds assail their byke ; 

As open pussie's mortal foes, 

When, pop ! she starts before their nose ; 

As eager runs the market-crowd, 

When a Catch the thief!" resounds aloud; 

So Maggie runs, the witches follow, 

Wi' mony an eldritch screech and hollow. 



Ah, Tam ! Ah, Tam ! thou'll get thy fairin' ! 

In hell they'll roast thee like a heriin' ! 

In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin' ! 

Kate soon will be a woefu' woman ! 

Now do thy speedy utmost, Meg, 

And win the key-stane 1 of the brig ; 

There at them thou thy tail may toss, 

A running stream they darena cross ! 

But ere the key-stane she could make, 

The fient a tail she had to shake ! 

For Nannie, far before the rest, 

Hard upon noble Maggie prest, 

And flew at Tam wi' furious ettle ; 

But little wist she Maggie's mettle — 

Ae spring brought off her master hale, 

But left behind her ain gray tail : 

The carlin claught her by the rump, 

And left poor Maggie scarce a stump. 



Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read, 
J Ik man and mother's son, take heed : 
Whene'er to drink you are inclin'd, 
Or cutty-sarks run in your mind, 
Think ! ye may buy the joys o'er dear- 
Remember Tam o' Shanter's mare. 



i It. is a well-known fact that witches, or any evil spirits, have 
no power to follow a poor wight any further than the middle of 
the next running stream. It may be proper likewise to mention to 
the benighted traveller, that when he fallsin with boKies, whatever 
danger there may be in his going forward, there is much more haz- 
indin turning back. 



CXIX. 
^ttJor^g of &ttlitibvto 

TO THE 

PRESIDENT OF THE HIGHLAND SOCIETY. 



[This Poem made its first appearance, as I was assured by my 
friend the late Thomas I'ringle, in the Scots Magazine, for Febru- 
ary, 1818, and was printed from the original in the hand-writing of 
Burns. It was headed thus, " To the Right Honourable the Earl 
of Breadalbyne, President of the Right Honourable and Hon- 
ourable the Highland Society, which met on the 23d of May last, 
at the Shakspeare, Covent Garden, to concert ways and means to 
frustrate the designs of four hundred Highlanders, who, as the So- 
ciety were informed by Mr. M , of A s, were so audacious as 

to attempt an escape from their lawful lairds ana masters, whose 
property they were, by emigrating from the lands of Mr. Macdonald, 
of Glengarry to the wilds of Canada, in search of that fantastic 
thing— Liberty." The Poem was communicated by Burns to 
his friend Rankine of Adam Hill, in Ayrshire.] 



Long life, my Lord, an' health be yours, 
Unskaith'd by hunger'd Highland boors ; 
Lord grant nae duddie desperate beggar, 
Wi' dirk, claymore, or rusty trigger, 
May twin auld Scotland o' a life 
She likes — as lambkins Like a knife. 

Faith, you and A s were right 

To keep the Highland hounds in sight, 

I doubt na' ! they wad bid nae better 

Than let them ance out owre the water ; 

Then up amang the lakes and seas 

They'll mak' what rules and laws they please; 

Some daring Hancoke, or a Franklin' ; 

May set their Highland bluid a ranklin' ; 

Some Washington again may head them 

Or some Montgomery, fearless lead them, 

Till God knows what may be effected 

When by such heads and hearts directed — 

Poor dunghill sons of dirt and mire 

May to Patrician rights aspire ! 

Nae sage North, now, nor sager Sackville, 

To watch and premier o'er the pack vile, 

An' whare will ye get Howes and Clintons 

To bring them to a right repentance, 

To cowe the rebel generation, 

An' save the honour o' the nation ? 

They an' be d d ! what right hae they 

To meat or sleep, or light o' day ? 
Far less to riche3, pow'r, or freedom, 
But what your lordship likes to gie them ? 

But hear, my lord ! Glengarry, hear ! 

Your hand's owre light on them, I fear; 

Your factors, grieves, trustees, and bailies, 

I canna' say but they do gaylies ; 

They lay aside a' tender mercies, 

An' tirl the hallions to the birses ; 

Yet while they're only poind't and herriet, 

They'll keep their stubborn Highland spirit ; 

But smash them ! crash them a' to spails 

An' rot the dyvorsi' the jails ! 

The young dogs, swinge them to the labour ( 

Let wark an' hunger mak' them sober ! 




! 






OF ROBERT BURNS 



101 



The hizzies, if they're aughtlins fawsont. 
Let them in Drury-lane be lesson'd ! 
An' if the wives an' dirty brats 
E'en thiggerat your doors an' yetts 
Flaffan wi' duds an' grey wi' beas', 
Frightin' awa your deucks an' geese, 
Get out a horsewhip or a Jowler, 
The langest thong, the fiercest growler 
An gar the tattered gypsies pack 
Wi' a' their bastarts on their back ! 
Go on, my Lord ! I lang to meet you, 
An' in my house at hame to greet you ; 
Wi' common lords ye shanna mingle, 
The benmost neuk beside the ingle, 
At my right han' assigned your seat 
'Tween Herod's hip an Polycrate, — 
Or if you on your station tarrow, 
Between Almagro and Pizarro, 
A seat, I'm sure ye're weel deservin't ; 
An' till ye come — Your humble servant, 



Beelzebub. 



June 1st, Anno Mundi 5790. 



cxx 



2)oi)n tEaglot. 



[ Hums, it appears, was, in one of his excursions in revenue mat- 
ters, likely to be detained at Wanlockhead : the roads were slip- 
pery with ice, his mare kep her feet with difficulty, and all the black- 
smiths of the village were pre-engaged. To Mr. Taylor, a person 
of influence in the place, the poet, in despair, addressed this little 
Poem, begging his interference : Taylor spoke to a smith ; the smith 
flew to his tools, sharpened or frosted the shoes, and it is said lived for 
thirty years to boast that he had " never been well paid but ance, and 
that was by a poet, who paid him in money, paid him in drink, and 
paid him in verse."] 



With Pegasus upon a day, 

Apollo weary flying, 
Through frosty hills the journey lay, 

On foot the way was plying. 

Poor slip-shod giddy Pegasus 

Was but a sorry walker ; 
To Vulcan then Apollo goes, 

To get a frosty calker. 

Obliging Vulcan fell to work, 
Threw by his coat and bonnet, 

And did Sol's business in a crack; 
Sol paid him with a sonnet. 

Ye Vulcan's sons of Wanlockhead, 

Pity my sad disaster; 
My Pegasus is poorly shod — 

I'll pay you like my master. 

Robert 
Ramans. 3 o'clock, ( no date. 



CXXI. 

lament 

OK 

MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS, 

ON THE APPROACH OF SPRING. 



fThe poet communicated this " Lament" to his friend, Dr. Moore, 
in February, 1791, but it was composed about the close of the pre- 
ceding year, at the request of Lady Winifred Maxwell Constable, 
of Terreagles, the last in direct descent of the noble and ancient 
house of Maxwell, of Nithsdale. Burns expressed himself mor« 
than commonly pleased with this composition ; nor was he unre- 
warded, for Lady Winifred gave him a valuable snuff-box, Tvitb 
the portrait of the unfortunate Mary on the lid. The bed still 
keeps its place in Terreagles, on which the queen slept as she was 
on her way to take refuge with her cruel and treacherous cousin, Eli- 
zabeth ; and a letter from her no less unfortunate grandson, Charkr 
the First, calling the Maxwells to arm in his cause, is preserved in 
the family archives.] 



Now Nature hangs her mantle green 

On every blooming tree, 
And spreads her sheets o' daisies white 

Out o'er the grassy lea : 
Now Phoebus cheers the crystal streams, 

And glads the azure skies ; 
But nought can glad the weary wight 

That fast in durance lies. 



Now lav'rocks wake the merry morn, 

Aloft on dewy wing; 
The merle, in his noontide bow'r, 

Makes woodland echoes ring ; 
The mavis wild wi' mony a note, 

Sings drowsy day to rest : 
In love and freedom they rejoice, 

Wi' care nor thrall oppvest. 



Now blooms the lily by the bank, 

The primrose down the brae ; 
The hawthorn's budding in the glen. 

And milk-white is the slae ; 
The meanest hind in fail- Scotland 

May rove their sweets amang ; 
But I, the Queen of a' Scotland 

Maun lie in prison Strang ! 



I was the Queen o' bonnie France, 

Where happy I hae been ; 
Fu' lightly rase I in the morn, 

As blythe lay down at e'en : 
And I'm the sov'reign o' Scotland, 

And mony a traitor there ; 
Yet here I lie in foreign bands 

And never-ending care. 



102 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



But as for thee, thou false woman ! 

My sister and my fae, 
Grim vengeance yet shall whet a sword 

That thro' thy soul shall gae ! 
The weeping blood in woman's breast 

Was never known to thee ; 
Nor th' babn that draps on wounds of woe 

Frae woman's pitying e'e. 



My son ! my son ! may kinder stary 

Upon thy fortune shine ; 
A] id may those pleasures gild thy reign, 

That ne'er wad blink on mine ! 
God keep thee frae thy mother's faes, 

Or turn their hearts to thee : 
And where thou meet'st thy mother's friend, 

Remember him for me ! 



O ! soon, to me, may summer-suns 

Nae mair light up the morn ! 
Nae mair, to me, the autumn winds 

Wave o'er the yellow corn ! 
And in the narrow house o' death 

Let winter round me rave ; 
And the next flow'rs that deck the spring 

Bloom on my peaceful grave ! 



CXXII. 

Z\)t 8HJ)tet!e. 



[** As the authentic prose history," says Burns, " of the ' Whistle' 
is curious, I shall here give it. In the train of Anne of Denmark, 
when she came to Scotland with our James the Sixth, there came 
overalso a Danish gentleman of gigantic stature and great prowess, 
and a matchless champion of Bacchus. He had a little ebony whis- 
tle, which at the commencement of the orgies lie laid on the table, 
and whoever was the last able to blow it, eveiy body else being dis- 
abled by the potency of the bottle, was to carry off the whistle as a 
trophy of victory. The Dane produced credentials of his victories, 
without a single defeat, at the courts of Copenhagen, Stockholm, 
Moscow, Warsaw, and several of the petty courts in Germany ; and 
challenged the Scotch Bacchanalians »o the alternative of trying his 
prowess, or else of acknowledging their inferiority. After many 
overthrows on the part of the Scots, the Dane was encountered by 
Sir Robert Lawrie, of Maxwelton, ancestor of the present worthy 
baronet of that name ; who, after three days and three nights' hard 
ccntest, left the Scandinavian under the table, 

' And blew on the Whistle his requiem shrill/ 

" Sir Walter, son to Sir Robert before mentioned, afterwards lost 
the whistle to Walter Riddel, of Glenriddel, who had married a sister 
of Sir Walter's.— On Friday, the 16th of October, 1790, at Friar*s- 
C'arse, the whistle was once more contended for, as related in the bal- 
lad, by the present Sir Robert of Maxwelton ; Robert Riddel, Esq., of 
Glenriddel, lineal descendant and representariveof Walter Riddel, who 
won the whistle, and in whose family it had continued ; and Alexan- 
der Fer^usson, Esq., of Craigdarroch, likewise descended of the 
jutat Sir Robert ; which last gentleman carried off the hard-won ho- 
nours of the field." 

The jovial contest took place in the dining-room of Friar's-Carse, 
in die presence of the Bard, who drank bottle ai.d bottle about with 
thern, and seemed quite disposed to take up the conqueror when the 
Oiy dawned.] 

1 sing of a whistle, a whistle of worth, 
I sing of a whistle, the pride of the North, 



Was brought to the court of our good Scottish 

king, 
And long with this whistle all Scotland shall 

ring. 

Old Loda, 1 still rueing the arm of Fingal, 

The god of the bottle sends down from his 

hall— 
"This whistle's your challenge — to Scotland 

get o'er, 
" And drink them to hell, Sir ! or ne'er see 

me more !" 



Old poets have sung, and old chronicles tell, 
What champions ventur'd, what champions fell ; 
The son of great Loda was conqueror still, 
And blew on his whistle his requiem shrill. 

Till Robert, the Lord of the Cairn and the 

Scaur, 
Unmatch'd at the bottle, unconquer'd in war, 
He drank his poor godship as deep as the sea, 
No tide of the Baltic e'er drunker than he. 



Thus Robert, victorious, the trophy has gain'd ; 
Which now in his house has for ages remain' d ; 
Till three noble chieftains, and all of his blood, 
The jovial contest again have renew'd. 

Three joyous good fellows, with hearts clear of 

flaw ; 
Craigdarroch, so famous for wit, worth, and 

law; 
And trusty Glenriddel, so skiil'd in old coins; 
And gallant Sir Robert, deep-read in old wines. 

Craigdarroch began, with a tongue smooth as 

oil, 
Desiring Glenriddel to yield up the spoil ; 
Or else he would muster the heads of the clan, 
And once more, in claret, try which was the 

man. 

" By the gods of the ancients!" Glenriddel re- 
plies, 
" Before I surrender so glorious a prize, 
I'll conjure the ghost of the great Rorie More, 2 
And bumper his horn with him twenty times 
o'er." 



Sir Robert, a soldier, no speech would pretend, 
But he ne'er turn'd his back on his foe — or his 

friend, 
Said, toss down the whistle, the prize of the 

field, 
And knee-deep in claret, he'd die, or he'd yield. 



' Sec Ossian's 
s S e Johnson 



-thura. 

V to the M^rwcj 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



108 






To the board oi Glenriddcl our ncroes repair, 
So noted for drowning of sorrow and care ; 
But for wine and for welcome not more known 

to fame , 

Than the sense, wit, and taste of a sweet lovely 

dame. 

A bard was selected to witness the fray, 
And tell future ages the feats of the day ; 
A bard who detested all sadness and spleen, 
And wish'd that Parnassus a vineyard had 
been. 

The dinner being over the claret they ply, 

And ev'ry new cork is a new spring of joy ; 

In the bands of old friendship and kindred so 

set, 
And the bands grew the tighter the more they 

were wet. 

Gay pleasure ran riot as bumpers ran o'er ; 
Bright Phoebus ne'er witness'd so joyous a core, 
And vow'd that to leave them he was quite 

forlorn, 
Till Cynthia hinted he'd find them next morn. 

Six bottles a-piece had well wore out the 

night, 
When gallant Sir Robert, to finish the fight, 
Turn'd o'er in one bumper a bottle of red, 
And swore 'twas the way that their ancestor 

did. 

Then worthy Glenriddel, so cautious and sage, 
No longer the warfare, ungodly, would wage ; 
A high-ruling Elder to wallow in wine ! 
He left the foul business to folks less divine. 

The gallant Sir Robert fought hard to the 
end ; 

But who can with fate and quart-bumpers con- 
tend ? 

Though fate said — a hero shall perish in light ; 

So up rose bright Phcebus — and down fell the 
knight. 

Next up rose our bard, like a prophet in 
drink : — 

- Craigdarroch, thou'lt soar when creation shall 
sink ; 

But if thou would flourish immortal in rhyme, 

Come — one bottle more — and have at the sub- 
lime ! 

"Thy line, that have struggled for freedom with 

Bruce, 
Shall heroes and patriots ever produce : 
So thine be the laurel, and mine be the bay; 
The field thou hast won. by yon bright god of 

dav?' ? 



cxxnr. 

!>N 

MISS BURNET, 

OF MONBODDO. 



[This beautiful and accomplished lady, the heavenly Burnet, fas 
Bums loved to call her, was daughter to theodd and the elegant, the 
clever and the whimsical Lord Monboddo. " In domestic circum- 
stances," says Robert Chambers, " Monboddo was particularly unfor- 
tunate, His wife, a very beautiful woman, died in child-bed. His son, 
a promising boy, in whose education he took great delight, was 
likewise snatched from his affections by a premature death ; and 
his second daughter, in personal loveliness one of the first wo- 
men of the age, was cut oft' by consumption, when only twenty-five 
years old." Her name was Elizabeth.] 



Life ne'er exulted in so rich a prize 
As Burnet, lovely from her native skies ; 
Nor envious death so triumph'd in a blow, 
As that which laid th' accomplish'd Burnet 
low. 

Thy form and mind, sweet maid, can I forget ? 
In richest ore the brightest jewel set ! 
In thee, high Heaven above was truest shown, 
As by his noblest work the Godhead best is 
known. 

In vain ye flaunt in summer's pride, ye groves 
Thou crystal streamlet with thy flowery 
shore, 

Ye woodland choir that chant your idle loves, 
Ye cease to charm — Eliza is no more ! 



Ye heathy wastes, immix'd with reedy fens : 
Ye mossy streams, with sedge and rushes 
stor'd; 

Ye rugged cliffs, o'erhanging dreary glens, 
To you I fly, ye with my soul accord. 

Princes, whose cumb'rous pride was all their 
worth, 

Shall venal lays their pompous exit hail ? 
And thou, sweet excellence! forsake our earth, 

And not a muse in honest grief bewail ? 

We saw thee shine in youth and beauty's 
pride, 
And virtue's light, that beams beyond the 
spheres ; 
But like the sun eclips'd at morning tide, 
Thou left'st us darkling in a world of tears. 

The parent's heart that nestled fond in thee, 
That heart how sunk, a prey to grief and 
care ; 

So deckt the woodbine sweet yon aged tree ; 
So from it ravish'd, leaves it bleak and bare 



104 



THE POETTCAL WORKS 



CXXIV 
SUntent 

FOR 

JAMES, EARL OF GLENCAIRN. 



[ Hums lamented the death of this kind and accomplished noble- 
man with melancholy sincerity : he moreover named one of his sons 
for him : he went into mourning when he heard of his death, and he 
fuag of his merits in a strain not destined soon to lose the place it 
has taken among verses which record the names of the noble and the 
generous. He died January 30, 1791, in the forty-second year 
of his age. James Cunningham was succeeded in his title by his 
bro flier, and with him exphed, in 1796, the last of a race, whose name 
is intimately connected with the History of Scotland, frou the days 
of Malcolm Canmore.] 



The wind blew hollow frae the hills, 

By fits the sun's departing beam 
Look'd on the fading yellow woods 

That wav'd o'er Lugar's winding stream : 
Beneath a craggy steep, a bard, 

Laden with years and meikle pain, 
[n loud lament bewail'd his lord, 

Whom death had all untimely ta'en. 



He lean'd him to an ancient aik, 

Whose trunk was mould'ring down with years; 
His locks were bleached white with time, 

His hoary cheek was wet wi' tears ; 
And as he touch'd his trembling harp, 

And as he tun'd his doleful sang, 
The winds, lamenting thro' their caves, 

To echo bore the notes alang. 



" Ye scatter'd birds that faintly sing 

The reliqmes of the vernal quire ! 
Ye woods that shed on a' the winds 

The honours of the aged year ! 
A few short months, and glad and gay, 

Again ye'll charm the ear and e'e ; 
But nocht in all revolving time 

Can gladness bring agaiD to me. 



" 1 am a bending aged tree, 

That long has stood the wind and rain ; 
But now has come a cruel blast, 

And my last hold of earth is gane : 
Nae leaf o' mine shall greet the spring, 

Nae s ; mmer sun exalt my bloom; 
But I maun lie before the storm, 

And ithers plant them in my room. 



" I've seen sae mony changefu^ years, 

On earth I am a stranger grown ; 
I wander in the ways of men, 

Alike unknowing and unknown i 
Unheard, unpitied, unrelieved, 

I bear alane my lade o' care, 
For silent, low, on beds of dust, 

Lie a' that would my sorrows share 



" And last (the sum of a' my griefs ! ^ 

My noble master lies in clay ; 
The flow'r amang our barons bold, 

His country's pride ! his country's stay- 
In weary being now I pine, 

For a' the life of life is dead, 
And hope has left my aged ken, 

On forward wing for ever fled. 



" Awake thy last sad voice, my harp '. 

The voice of woe and wild despair ; 
Awake ! resound thy latest lay — 

Then sleep in silence evermair ! 
And thou, my last, best, only friend, 

That fillest an untimely tomb, 
Accept this tribute from the bard 

Though brought from fortune's mirkest gloom. 



" In poverty's low barren vale 

Thick mists, obscure, involv'd me round % 
Though oft I turn'd the wistful eye, 

Nae ray of fame was to be found : 
Thou found'st me, like the morning sun, 

That melts the fogs in limpid air, 
The friendless bard and rustic song 

Became alike thy fostering care. 



" O ! why has worth so short a date ? 

While villains ripen gray with time ? 
Must thou, the noble, gen'rous, great, 

Fall in bold manhood's hardy prime ! 
Why did I live to see that day ? 

A day to me so full of woe ! — 
O had I met the mortal shaft 

Which laid my benefactor low ! 



" The bridegroom may forget the bride* 

Was made his wedded wife yestreen 
The monarch may forget the crown 

That on his head an hour has been ; 
The mother may forget the child 

That smiles sae sweetly on her knee ; 
But I'll remember thee, Glencairn, 

And a' that thou hast done for me V 







1 acl.£n 


vill. Years 


and \!< ikle pai 




d ni 


d .'ill un 



OF R01JERT BURNS. 



105 



oxxv. 

3Efat* 

SENT TO 

SIR JOHN WHITEFOORD, BART., 

OK WHITEFOORD. 
WITH THE FOREGOING POEM. 



[Sir John Whitefoord, a name of old standing in Ayrshire, in- 
herited the love of nis family for literature, and interested himself 
early in the fame and fortunes of Burns.] 



Thou, wno thy honour as thy God rever'st, 
Who, save thy mind's reproach, nought earthly 

fear'st, 
To thee this votive offering I impart, 
The tearful tribute of a broken heart. 
The friend thou valuedst, I, the patron, lov'd ; 
His worth, his honour, all the world approv'd, 
We'll mourn till we too go as he lias gone, 
And tread the dreary path to that dark world 

unknown. 



CXXVI 

ADD RESS 

TO 

ftfje italic of ^ijomson, 

ON CROWNING HIS BUST AT EDNAM WITH BAY 8. 



[*' Lord Buchan has the pleasure to invite Mr. Burns to make one 
at the coronation of the bust of Thomson, on Ednam Hill, on the 
22d of September: for which day perhaps his muse may inspire an 
ode suited to the occasion. Suppose Mr. Burns should, leaving the 
Nith, go across the country, and meet the Tweed at the nearest point 
from his farm, and, wandering along the pastoral banks of Thom- 
son's pure parent stream, catch inspiration in the devious walk, till 
nc finds Lord Buchan sitting on the ruins of Dryburgh. There the 
Commendator will give him a hearty welcome, and try to light his 
lamp at the pure flame of native genius, upon the altar of Caledo- 
nian virtue." Such was the invitation of the Earl of Buchan to 
Burns. To request the poet to lay down his sickle when his harvest 
was half reaped, and traverse fine of the wildest and most untrodden 
ways in Scotland, for the purpose of looking at the fantastic corona- 
tion of the bad bust of an excellent poet, was worthy of Lord 
Buchan. The poor bard made answer, that a week's absence in the 
middle of his harvest was a step he durst not venture upon — but he 
sent this Poem. 

The poet's manuscript affords the following interesting varia- 
tions .— 

" While cold-eyed Spring, a virgin coy, 
Unfolds her verdant mantle sweet, 
Or pranks the sod in frolic joy, 
A carpet for her youthful feet: 
" While Summer, with a matron's grace, 
Walks stately in the cooling shade, 
And oft delighted loves to trace 
Tht progress of the spiky blade : 
" While Autumn, benefactor kind, 
With age's hoary honours clad, 
Surveys, with self-approving mind, 
Each creature on his bounty fed" 



While virgin Spring, by Eden's flood, 
Unfolds her tender mantle green, 

Or pranks the sod in frolic mood, 
Or tunes vEolian strains between : 



While Summer with a matron grace 
Retreats to Dryburgh's cooling shade 

Yet oft, delighted, stops to trace 
The progress of the spiky blade : 

While Autumn, benefactor kind, 

By Tweed erects his aged head, 
And sees, with self-approving mind, 

Each creature on his bounty fed : 

While maniac Winter rages o'er 
The hills whence classic Yarrow flows, 

Rousing the turbid torrent's roar, 
Or sweeping, wild, a waste of snows : 

So long, sweet Poet of the year ! 

Shall bloom that wreath thou well hast won \ 
While Scotia, with exulting tear, 

Proclaims that Thomson was her son. 



cxxvir. 



ttofart Graham, 1Esg„ 



OF FINTRY. 



fBy thlb Poem Burns prepared the way for his humbk request co 
iw removed to a district more moderate in its bounds than one whi"b 
trxtraded over ten country parishes, and exposed him both to fatigue 
a-ad expense. This wish was expressed in prose, and was in clue time 
attended to, for Fintry was a gentleman at once kind and consi 
i J ..,'ratc. J 



Late crippl'd of an arm, and now a leg, 
About to beg a pass for leave to beg : 
Dull, listless, teas'd, dejected, and deprest, 
(Nature is adverse to a cripple's rest ;) 
Will generous Graham list to his Poet's wail ? 
(It soothes poor misery, hearkening to her tale,) 
And hear him curse the light he first survey'd. 
And doubly curse the luckless rhyming trade ? 

Thou, Nature, partial Nature ! I arraign ; 
Of thy caprice maternal I complain : 
The lion and the bull thy care have found, 
One shakes the forests, and one spurns the 

ground : 
Thou giv'st the ass his hide, the snail his shell, 
Th' envenom'd wasp, victorious, guards his cell . 
Thy minions, kings, defend, control, devour, 
In all th' omnipotence of rule and po vver ; 
Foxes and statesmen, subtile wiles insure ; 
The cit and polecat stink, and are secure ; 
Toads with their poison, doctors with their 

drug, 
The priest and hedgehog in their robes are 

snug; 
Ev'n silly woman has her warlike arts, 
Her tongue and eyes, her dreaded spear and 

dartB ; — 



i(>6 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



But, oh ! thou bitter stepmother and hard, 

To thy poor, fenceless, naked child — the Bard ! 

A thing unteachable in world's skill, 

And half an idiot too, more helpless still; 

No heels to bear him from the op'ning dun ; 

No claws to dig, his hated sight to shun ; 

No horns, but those by luckless Hymen worn, 

And those, alas ! not Amalthea's horn : 

No nerves olfact'ry, Mammon's trusty cur, 

Clad in rich dullness' comfortable fur ; — 

In naked feeling, and in aching pride, 

He bears the unbroken blast from ev'ry side : 

Vampyre booksellers drain him to the heart, 

And scorpion critics cureless venom dart. 

Critics ! — appall'd I venture on the name, 
Those cut-throat bandits in the paths of fame : 
Bloody dissectors, worse than ten Monroes ! 
He hacks to teach, they mangle to expose. 

His heart by causeless wanton malice wrung, 
By blockheads' daring into madness stung ; 
His well- won bays, than life itself more dear, 
By miscreants torn, who ne'er one sprig must 

wear : 
Foil'd, bleeding, tortur'd, in the unequal strife, 
The hapless poet flounders on through life ; 
'Till fled each hope that once his bosom fir'd 5 
And fled each muse that glorious once inspir'd, 
Low sunk in squalid, unprotected age, 
Dead, even resentment, for his injur'd page, 
He heeds or feels no more the ruthless critic's 

rage ! 

So, by some hedge, the gen'rous steed deceas'd, 
For half-starv'd snarling curs a dainty feast : 
By toil and famine wore to skin and bone, 
Lies senseless of each tugging bitch's son. 

dulness ! portion of the truly blest ! 
Calm shelter'd haven of eternal rest ! 
Thy sons ne'er madden in the fierce extremes 
Of fortune's polar frost, or torrid beams. 
If mantling high she fills the golden cup, 
With sober selfish ease they sip it up ; 
Conscious the bounteous meed they well de- 
serve, 
They only wonder "some folks" do not starve. 
The grave sage hern thus easy picks his frog, 
And thinks the mallard a sad worthless dog. 
When disappointment snaps the clue of hope. 
And thro' disastrous night they darkling grope, 
With deaf endurance sluggishly they bear, 
And just conclude that " fools are fortune's 

care." 
So, heaVy, passive to the tempest's shocks, . 
Strong on the sign-post stands the stupid ox. 

Not so the idle muses' mad-cap train, 

Not such the workings of their moon-struck 

brain ; 
In equanimity they never dwell, 
By t irns in soaring heav'n or vaulted hell. 



I dread thee, fate, relentless and severe,, 
With all a poet's, husband's, father's fear i 
Already one strong hold of hope is lost, 
Glencairn, the truly noble lies in dust; 
(Fled, like the sun eclips'd as noon appears, 
And left us darkling in a world of tears:) 
O ! hear my ardent, grateful, selfish pray'r ! — 
Fintry, my other stay, long bless and spare ! 
Thro' a long life his hopes and wishes crown ; 
And bright in cloudless skies his sun goes down 1 
May bliss domestic smooth his private path ; 
Give energy to life ; and soothe his latest breath, 
With many a filial tear circling the bed of 
death ! 



CXXVII1. 



Mount &ra!)am lEjjq., 

OF FJNTIiY. 
RECEIVING A FAVOUR. 






f Graham of Fintry not only obtained for the poet the appoint- 
ment in the Excise, which, while he lived in Edinburgh, he desired, 
but he also removed him, as ne wished, to a better district ; and whea 
imputations were thrown out against his loyalty, he defended him 
with obstinate and successful eloquence. Fintry did all that was 
done to raise Burns out of the toiling humility of his condition, at £ 
enable him to serve the muse without fear of want.) 



I call no goddess to inspire my strains, 
A fabled muse may suit a bard that feigns * 
Friend of my life ! my ardent spirit burns. 
And all the tribute of my heart returns, 
For boons accorded, goodness ever new, 
The gift still dearer, as the giver, you. 

Thou orb of day ! thou other paler light ! 
And all ye many sparkling stars of night ; 
If aught that giver from my mind efface ; 
If I that giver's bounty e'er disgrace ; 
Then roll to me, along your wandering spheres, 
Only to number out a villain's years ' 



CXXIX. 

i V t $ i o n. 



[This Vision of Liberty descended on Bums among the magnm* 
cent ruins of the Collect of Lincluden, which stand on the junction 
of the Cluden and the Nith, a short mile above Dumfries. He gave 
us the Vision ; perhaps, he dared not in those yeasty times venture 
on the song, which his secret visitant poured from her lips. The 
scene is chiefly copied from nature: the swellings of the Nith, the 
bowlings of the fox on the hill, and the cry of the owl, unite at time* 
with the natural beauty of the spot, and give it life and voice. These 
ruins were a favourite haunt of the poet.] 



As I stood by yon roofless tower, 

Where the wa' -flower scents the dewy air, 
Where th' howlet mourns in her ivy bower 

And tells the midnight moon her care ; 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



107 



The winds were laid, the air was still, 
The stars they shot along the sky ; 

The fox was howling on the hill, 
And the distant echoing glens reply. 

The stream, adown its hazelly path, 
Was rushing by the ruin'd wa's, 

Hasting to join the sweeping Nith, 1 
Whose distant roaring swells and fa's. 

The cauld blue north was streaming forth 
Her lights, wi' hissing eerie din ; 

Athort the lift they start and shift, 
Like fortune's favours, tint as win. 

By heedless chance I turn'd mine eyes, 
And, by the moonbeam, shook to see 

A stern and stalwart ghaist arise, 
Attir'd as minstrels wont to be. 2 

Had I a statue been o' stane, 
His darin' look had daunted me ; 

And on his bonnet grav'd was plain, 
The sacred posy — * Libertie I' 

And frae his harp sic strains did flow, 
Might rous'd the slumb'ring dead to hear ; 

But, oh ! it was a tale of woe, 
As ever met a Briton's ear. 

He sang wi' joy the former day, 
He weeping wail'd his latter times ; 

But what he said it was nae play, — 
I winna ventur't in my rhymes. 



cxxx. 



ON HIS BIRTH-DAY. 



[John Maxwell of Terraughty and Munhses, to whom these verses 
we addressed, though descended from the Earls of Nithsdale, cared 
little about lineage, and claimed merit only from a judgment sound 
and clear— a knowledge of business which penetrated into all the 
concerns of life, and a skill in handling the most difficult subjects, 
which was considered unrivalled. Under an austere manner, he hid 
much kindness of heart, and was in a fair way of doing an act of 
gentleness when giving a refusal. He loved to meet Burns : not 
that he either cared for or comprehended poetry ; but he was pleased 
with his knowledge of human nature, and with the keen and pierc- 
ing remarks in which he indulged. He was seventy-one years old 
when these verses were written, and survived the poet twenty years.] 

Health to the Maxwell's vet'ran chief! 
Health, ay unsour'd by care or grief: 

VARIATIONS. 

' To join yon river on the Strath. 

8 Now looking over firth and fauld, 

Her horn the pale-fae'd Cynthia rear'd ; 
When, lo, in form of minstrel auld, 
A 6«ern and stalwart ghaist appearM 



Inspir'd, I turn'd Fate's sybil leaf 

This natal morn ; 

I see thy life is stuff o' prief, 

Scarce quite half worn 

This day thou metes three score eleven, 
And I can tell that bounteous Heaven 
(The second sight, ye ken, is given 

To ilka Poet) 
On thee a tack o' seven times seven 

Will yet bestow it. 

If envious buckies view wi' sorrow 

Thy lengthen' d days on this blest morrow, 

May desolation's lang teeth'd harrow, 

Nine miles an hour, 
Rake them like Sodom and Gomorrah, 

In brunstane stourc — 

But for thy friends, and they are mony, 
Baith honest men and lasses bonnie, 
May couthie fortune, kind and cannie, 

In social glee, 
Wi' mornings blythe and e'enings funny 

Bless them and thee ! 

Fareweel, auld birkie ! Lord be near ye, 
And then the Deil he daur na steer ye ; 
Your friends ay love your faes ay fear ye, 

For me, shame fa' me, 
If neist my heart I dinna wear ye 

While Burns they ca' me ! 

Dumfries, 18 Feb. 1792. 



CXXXI. 

Z\)t &ig!)t$ of »man. 

AN OCCASIONAL ADDRESS SPOKEN B 
MISS FONTENELLE 

ON HER BENEFIT NIGHT, 

Nov. 26, 1792. 



[Miss Fontenelle, was one of the actresses whom Williamson, the 
manager, brought for several seasons to Dumfries: she was young 
and pretty, indulged in little levities of speech, and rumour added 
perhaps maliciously, levities of action. The Rights of Man had been 
advocated by Paine, the nights of Woman by Mary Wolstonecroft, 
and nought was talked of, but the moral and political regene- 
ration of the world. The line 



' But ti 



with kings and ti 



with constitutions," 



got an uncivil twist in recitation, from some of the audience. Th«> 
words were eagerly caught up, and had some hisses bestowed on 
them.] 



While Europe's eye is fix'd on mighty things,. 
The fate of empires and the fall of kings ; 



108 



THE POETICAL WOKKS 






While quacks of state must each produce his 

plan, 
And even children lisp the Rights of Man ; 
Amid this mighty fuss just let me mention, 
The Rights of Woman merit some attention. 

First on the sexes' intermixed connexion, 
One sacred Right of Woman is protection. 
The tender flower that lifts its head, elate, 
Helpless, must fall before the blasts of fate, 
Sunk on the earth, defac'd its lovely form, 
Unless your shelter ward th' impending storm. 

Our second Right — but needless here is caution, 
To keep that right inviolate's the fashion, 
Each man of sense has it so full before him, 
He'd die before he'd wrong it — 'tis decorum. — 
There was, indeed, in far less polish'd days, 
A time, when rough rude man had naughty 

ways ; 
Would swagger, swear, get drunk, kick up a 

riot, 
Nay even thus invade a lady's quiet. 
Now thank our stars ! these Gothic times are 

fled; 
Now, well-bred men — and you are all well- 
bred — 
Most justly think (and we are much the gainers) 
Such conduct neither spirit, wit, nor manners. 

For Right the third, our last, our best, our 

dearest, 
That right to fluttering female hearts the near- 
est, 
Which even the Rights of Kings in low pros- 
tration 
Most humbly own — 'tis dear, dear admiration ! 
In that blest sphere alone we live and move ; 
There taste that life of life — immortal love. — 
Smiles, glances, sighs, tears, fits, flirtations, airs, 
'Gainst such an host what flinty savage dares — 
When awful Beauty joins with all her charms, 
Who is so rash as rise in rebel arms ? 

But truce with kings and truce with constitu- 
tions, 
With bloody armaments and revolutions, 
Let majesty your first attention summon. 
Ah! ca ira ! the majesty of woman! 



•4 



CXXXIL 

J&onofcg, 

ON A LADY PAMED FOH HER CAPRICE. 



[The heroine < f this rough lampoon was Mrs. Riddel of Woodleigii- 
Paik : a lady, young and gay, much of a wit, and something of a po- 
etess, and till the hour of his death the friend of Burns himself. Sha 
pulled his displeasure on her, it is said s by smiling more sweetly than 
he liked on some " epauletted coxcombs," for so he sometimes desig- 
nated commissioned officers: the lady soon laughed him out of his 
mood. We owe to her pen an account of her last interview with the 
poet, written with great beauty and feeling.] 



How cold is that bosom which folly once fired, 
How pale is that cheek where the rouge lately 
giisten'd ! 
How silent that tongue which the echoes oft 
tired, 
How dull is that ear which to flattery so lis- 
ten'd ! 

If sorrow and anguish their exit await, 

From friendship and dearest affection re- 
mov'd; 

How doubly severer, Maria, thy fate, 
Thou diest unwept as thou livedst unlov'd. 

Loves, Graces, and Virtues, I call not on you ; 

So shy, grave, and distant, ye shed not a 
tear : 
But come, all ye offspring of Folly so true, 

And flowers let us cull for Maria's cold bier. 

We'll search through the garden for each silly 
flower, 
We'll roam through the forest for each idle 
weed; 
But chiefly the nettle, so typical, shower, 

For none e'er approach'd her but rued the 
rash deed. 

We'll sculpture the marble, we'll measure the 
lay; 
Here Vanity strums on her idiot lyre ; 
There keen Indignation shall dart on her prey, 
Which spurning Contempt shall redeem from 
his ire. 



©fjc lEphapft. 

Here lies., now a prey to insulting neglect, 
What once was a butterfly, gay in life's 
beam : 

Want only of wisdom denied her respect, 
Want only of goodness denied her esteem 






OF ROBERT BURNS. 



109 



OXXXIII. 
%pt*tle 



ESOPUS TO MAUI A. 



[Williamson, the actor, Colonel Macdouall, Captain Gillespie, and 
Mrs. Riddel are the characters whica pass over the stage in this 
strange composition : it is printed from the Poet's own manuscript, 
and seems a sort of outpouring of wrath and contempt, on persons 
who, in his eyes, gave themselves airs beyond their condition, or their 
merits. The verse of the lady is held up to contempt and laughter : 
the satirist celebrates her 

" Motley foundling fancies, stolen or strayed ;" 

and has a passing hit at her 

" St'U matchless tongue that conquers all reply."] 



From those drear solitudes and frowsy cells, 
Where infamy with sad repentance dwells ; 
"Where turnkeys make the jealous portal fast, 
And deal from iron hands the spare repast ; 
Where truant 'prentices, yet young in sin, 
Blush at the curious stranger peeping in ; 
Where strumpets, relics of the drunken roar, 
Resolve to drink, nay half to whore no more ; 
Where tiny thieves not destined yet to swing, 
Beat hemp for others, riper for the string : 
From these dire scenes my wretched lines 

date, 
To tell Maria her Esopus' fate. 



ft Alas ! I feel I am no actor here !" 

'Tis real hangmen, real scourges bear ! 

Prepare, Maria, for a horrid tale 

Will turn thy very rouge to deadly pale ; 

Will make thy hair, tho' erst from gipsy polled, 

By barber woven, and by barber sold, 

Though twisted smooth with Harry's nicest 

care, 
Like hoary bristles to erect and stare. 
The hero of the mimic scene, no more 
I start in Hamlet, in Othello roar ; 
Or haughty Chieftain, 'mid the din of arms, 
In Highland bonnet woo Malvina's charms ; 
While sans culottes stoop up the mountain high, 
And steal from me Maria's prying eye. 
Blest Highland bonnet ! Once my proudest 

dress, 
Now prouder still, Maria's temples press. 
I see her wave thy towering plumes afar, 
And call each coxcomb to the wordy war. 
I see her face the first of Ireland's sons, 1 
And even out-Irish his Hibernian bronze; 
The crafty colonel 2 leaves the tartan ed lines, 
For other wars, where he a hero shines ; 
The hopeful youth, in Scottish senate bred, 
Who owns a Bushby's heart without the head; 



Comes, 'mid a string of coxcombs to display, 
That veni, vidi, vici, is his way : 
The shrinking bard adown the alley skulks, 
And dreads a meeting worse than Woolwich 

hulks ; 
Though there, his heresies in church and state 
Might well award him Muir and Palmer's fftfce; 
Still she undaunted reels and rattles on. 
And dares the public like a noontide sun. 
(What scandal called Maria's janty stagger, 
The ricket reeling of a crooked swagger, 
Whose spleen e'en worse than Burns' venom 

when 
He dips in gall unmix' d his eager pen, — 
And pours his vengeance in the burning line, 
Who christened thus Maria's lyre divine ; 
The idiot strum of vanity bemused, 
And even th' abuse of poesy abused ! 
Who called her verse, a parish workhouse made 
For motley foundling fancies, stolen orstrayed ?) 

A workhouse ! ah, that sound awakes my woes, 
And pillows on the thorn my rack'd repose ! 
In durance vile here must I wake and weep, 
And all my frowzy couch in sorrow steep ; 
That straw where many a rogue has lain of 

yore, 
And vermined gipsies littered heretofore. 

Why, Lonsdale, thus thy wrath on vagrants 

pour, 
Must earth no rascal save thyself endure ' 
Must thou alone in guilt immortal swell, 
And make a vast monopoly of hell ? 
Thou know'st, the virtues cannot hate thee 

worse, 
The vices also, must they club their curse? 
Or must no tiny sin to others fall, 
Because thy guilt's supreme enough for all ? 

Maria, send me too thy griefs and cares ; 
In all of thee sure thy Esopus shares. 
As thou at all mankind the flag unfurls, 
Who on my fair one satire's vengeance hurls ? 
Who calls thee, pert, affected, vain coquette, 
A wit in folly, and a fool in wit. 

Who says, that fool alone is not thy due, 
And quotes thy treacheries to prove it true ? 
Our force united on thy foes we'll turn, 
And dare the war with all of woman born: 
For who can write and speak as thou and I ? 
My periods that decyphering defy, 
And thy still matchless tongue that conquers all 
reply. 



1 Captain Giua.pie 



3 Cou Ma?do«nU. 



no 



THE TOETICAL WORKS 



CXXXIV 
ON PASTORAL POETRY. 



[Though Gilbert Bums says there is some doubt of this Poem 
being by his brother, and though Robert Chambers declares that he 
" has scarcely a doubt that it is not by the Ayrshire Bard," 1 must 
print it as his for 1 have no doubt on the subject. It was found 
among the papers of the poet, in his own hand-writing : the 
second, the fourth, and the concluding verses bear the Burns' 
stamp, which no one has been successful in counterfeiting : they 
resemble the verses of Beattie, to which Chambers has compared 
cfaein as little as the cry of the eagle resembles the chirp of the 
«n-en.] 

Hail Poesie ! thou Nymph' reserv'd ! 

In chase o' thee, what crowds hae swerv'd 

Frae common sense, or sunk enerv'd 

'Mang heaps o' clavers ; 
And och ! o'er aft thy joes hae starv'd 

Mid a' thy favours ! 

Say, Lassie, why thy train amang, 
While loud, the trump's heroic clang, 
And sock or huskin skelp alang, 

To death or marriage ; 
Scarce ane has tried the shepherd-sang 

But wi' miscarriage ? 

In Homer's craft Jock Milton thrives ; 
Eschylus' pen Will Shakspeare drives ; 
Wee Pope, the knurlin, 'tiJl him rives 

Horatian fame ; 
In thy sweet sang, Barbauld, survives 

Even Sappho's flame. 

But thee, Theocritus, wha matches ? 
They're no herd's ballats, Maro's catches ; 
Squire Pope but busks his skinklin patches 

0' heathen tatters ; 
I pass by hunders, nameless wretches, 

That ape their betters. 

In this braw age o' wit and lear, 
Will nane the Shepherd's whistle mair 
Blaw sweetly in its native air 

And rural grace; 
And wi' the far-fam'd Grecian share 

A rival place ? 



Yes ! there is ane ; a Scottish callan — 
There's ane ; come forrit, honest Allan ! 
Thou need na jouk behint the hallan, 

A chiel sae clever; 
The teeth o' time may gnavv Tantallan, 

But thou's for ever ! 

Thou paints auld nature to the nines, 

In thy sweet Caledonian lines ; 

Nae gowden stream thro' myrtles twines, 

Where Philomel, 
While nightly breezes sweep the vines, 

Her griefs will tell ! 



In gowany glens thy burnie strays, 
Where bonnie lasses bleach their claes ; 
Or trots by hazelly shaws and braes, 

Wi* hawthorns gray, 
Where blackbirds join the shepherd's lays 

At close o' day. 

Thy rural loves are nature's sel' ; 
Nae bombast spates o' nonsense swell , 
Nae snap conceits, but that sweet spell 

O' witchin' love; 
That charm that can the strongest quell, 

The sternest move. 



exxxv 

j£onnet, 

WRITTEN ON THE TWENTY-FIFTH 

OF JANUARY, 1793, THE BIRTHDAY OF THE 

AUTHOR, ON HEARING 

A THRUSH SING IN A MORNING WALK. 



[Burns was fond of a saunter in a leafless weed, when the winmr 
storm howled among the branches. These characteristic lines were 
composed on the morning of his birth-day, with the Nith at his 
feet, and the ruins of Lincluden at his side : he is willing to accept 
the unlooked-for song of the thrush as a fortunate omen.J 



Sing on, sweet thrush, upon the leafless bough, 
Sing on, sweet bird, I listen to thy strain, 
See aged Winter, 'mid his surly reign, 

At thy blithe carol clears his furrow' d brow. 

So in lone poverty's dominion drear, 

Sits meek Content with light unanxious heart, 
Welcomes the rapid moments, bids them part, 

Nor asks if they bring aught to hope or fear. 

I thank Thee, Author of this opening day ! 

Thou whose bright sun now gilds yon orient 
skies ! 

Riches denied, Thy boon was purer joys, 
What wealth could never give nor take away ! 



Yet come, thou child of poverty and care, 
The mite high Heaven bestowed, that mite v: ith 
thee I'll share. 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



Ill 



CXXXVI. 

bonnet, 

OW THE 

DEATH OF ROBERT RIDDEL, ESQ. 

OF GLENRIDDEL, 

April, 1794. 



t "! '\ie dea'h of Glencakn, who was his patron, and the death of Glen- 
riddii, who was his friend, and had, while he lived at Ellisland, been 
his neighbour, weighed hard on the mind of Burns, who, about this 
time, began to regard his own future fortune with more of dismay 
than of hope. Riddel united antiquarian pursuits with those of li- 
terature, and experienced all the vulgar prejudices entertained by the 
peasantry against those who indulge in such researches. His 
collection of what the rustics of the vale called " queer quairns and 
swine-troughs," is now scattered or neglected : I have heard a com- 
petent judge say, that they threw light on both the public and domes- 
tic history of Scotland.] 



No more, ye warblers of the wood — no more ! 
Nor pour your descant, grating, on my soul ; 
Thou young-eyed Spring, gay in thy verdant 
stole, 
More welcome were to me grim Winter's wild- 
est roar. 

How can ye charm, ye flow'rs, with all your 
dyes? 
Ye blow upon the sod that wraps my friend: 
How can I to the tuneful strain attend ? 
That strain flows round th' untimely tomb where 
Riddel lies. 

Yes, pour, ye warblers, pour the notes of woe ! 
And soothe the Virtues weeping on this bier : 
The Man of Worth, and has not left his peer, 

Is in his " narrow house" for ever darkly low. 

Thee, Spring, again with joy shall others greet, 
Me, mem'ry of my loss will only meet. 



CXXXVII. 

Impromptu, 
ON MRS. R- 'S BIRTHDAY. 



|^By compliments such as these lines contain, Bums soothed the 
smart which his verses ** On a lady famed for her caprice" inflicted 
on the accomplished Mrs. Riddel.] 



Old Winter, with his frosty beard, 
Thus, once to Jove his prayer preferr'd, — 
What have I done of all the year, 
I'o bear this hated doom severe ? 



My cheerless sons no pleasure know ; 
Night's horrid car drags, dreary slow ; 
My dismal months no joys are crowningf, 
But spleeny English, hanging, drowning, 

Now, Jove, for once be mighty civil, 

To counterbalance all this evil ; 

Give me, and I've no more to say, 

Give me Maria's natal day ! 

That brilliant gift shall so enrich me, 

Spring, Summer, Autumn, cannot match me; 

'Tis done ! says Jove ; so ends my story, 

And Winter once rejoie'd in glory. 



CXXXVTTI 

A FRAGMENT. 



[Fragments of verse were numerous, Dr. Currie said, among tie 
loose papers of the poet. These lines formed the commencement of an 
ode commemorating the achievement of liberty for America, under 
the directing genius of Washington and Franklin.] 



Thee, Caledonia, thy wild heaths among, 
Thee, famed for martial deed and sacred song. 

To thee I turn with swimming eyes ; 
Where is that soul of freedom fled ? 
Immingled with the mighty dead ! 

Beneath the hallow'd turf where Wallace lies. 
Hear it not, Wallace, in thy bed of death ! 

Ye babbling winds, in silence sweep ; 

Disturb not ye the hero's sleep, 
Nor give the coward secret breath. 

Is this the power in freedom's war, 

That wont to bid the battle rage ? 
Behold that eye which shot immortal hate, 

Crushing the despot's proudest bearing ! 



CXXXIX. 

TO A YOUNG LADY. 



[This young lady was the daughter of the poet's friend, Graham 01 
Fintry ; and the gift alluded to was a copy of George Thr mson's 
Select Scottish Songs : a work which owes many a 
lyric genius of Burns, J 



Here, where the Scottish muse immortal lives, 
In sacred strains and tuneful numbers join'd, 

Accept the gift ; — tho' humble he who gives, 
Rich is the tribute of the grateful mind. 



112 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



So may no ruffian-feeling in thy breast, 
Discordant jar thy bosom-chords among ; 

Hut peace attune thy gentle soul to rest, 
Or love ecstatic wake his seraph song. 

Or pity's notes in luxury of tears, 

As modest want the tale of woe reveals ; 

While conscious virtue all the strain endears, 
And heaven-born piety her sanction seals. 



CXL. 



[Burns admired genius adorned by learning ; but mere learning 
without genius he- always regarded as pedantry. Those critics who 
scrupled too much about words he called eunuchs of literature, and 
to one, who taxed him with writing obscure language in questionable 
grammar, he said, " Thou art but a Gretna-green match-maker be- 
tween vowels and consonants !"] 



Twas where the birch and sounding thong are 

ply'd, 
The noisy domicile of pedant pride ; 
Where ignorance her darkening vapour throws, 
And cruelty directs the thickening blows; 
Upon a time, Sir Abece the great, 
In all his pedagogic powers elate, 
His awful chair of state resolves to mount, 
And call the trembling vowels to account. — 

First enter'd A, a grave, broad, solemn wight, 
But, ah ! deform' d, dishonest to the sight ! 
His twisted head look'd backward on the way, 
And flagrant from the scourge he grunted, Hi! 

Reluctant, E stalk' d in ; with piteous race 
The justling tears ran down his honest face ! 
That name ! that well-worn name, and all his 

own, 
Pale he surrenders at the tyrant's throne ! 
The pedant stifles keen the Roman sound 
Not all his mongrel diphthongs can compound ; 
And next the title following close behind, 
He to the nameless, ghastly wretch assign'd. 

The cobweb'd gothic dome resounded Y ! 
In sullen vengeance, I, disdain' d reply: 
The pedant swung his felon cudgel round, 
And knock' d the groaning vowel to the ground ! 

In rueful apprehension enter'd O, 
The wailing minstrel of despairing woe ; 
Th' Inquisitor of Spain the most expert, 
Might there have learnt new mysteries of his 

art; 
So grim, deform'd, with horrors entering U, 
II is dearest friend and brother scarcely knew 1 



As trembling U stood staring all aghast, 
The pedant in his left hand clutch'd him fast, 
In helpless infants' tears he dipp'd his right, 
Baptiz'd him eu, and kick'd him from his sight. 



CXLI. 

TO JOHN R A N K I N E 

[With the " rough, rude, ready-witted Rankine," of Adam jill.in 
Ayrshire, Burns kept up a will o'-wispish sort of a. corresp ndence 
in rhyme, till the day of his death : these communications, of which 
this is one, were sometimes graceless but always witty. It is sup- 
posed that these lin*«! were suggested by Falstaff' s account, of his 
ragged recruits : — 

" I'll not march through Coventry with them, that's flat IV 

Ae day, as Death, that grusome carl, 
Was driving to the tither warl' 
A mixtie-maxtie motley squad, 
And mony a guilt-bespotted lad ; 
Black gowns of each denomination, 
And thieves of every rank and station, 
From him that wears the star and garter, 
To him that wintles in a halter : 
Asham'd himseV to see the wretches, 
He mutters, glowrin' at the bitches, 
" By G — d I'll not be seen behint them, 
Nor 'mang the sp'ritual core present them, 
Without, at least, ae honest man, 
To grace this d — d infernal clan." 
By Adamhill a glance he threw, 
" L — d God !" quoth he, " I have it now, 
There's just the man I want, i' faith !" 
And quickly stoppit Rankine's breath. 



LII. 



MY DEAR AND MUCH HONOURED FRIEND, 

MRS. DUNLOP, 

OF DUNLOP 



[These verses were occasioned, it is said, by some sentiments con- 
tained in a communication from W rs. Dunlop. That excellent 
lady was sorely tried with domestic afflictions for a time, and to 
these he appears to allude ; but he deadened the effect of his sympa- 
thy, when he printed the stanzas in the Museum, changing the 
fourth line to, 

" Dearett Nancy thou canst tell!" 
and so transferring the whole to another heroine.] 



Sensibility how charming. 

Thou, my friend, canst truly tell : 

But distress with horrors arming, 
Thou hast also known too welL 



OV ROBERT HCRNS. 



I 13 



Fairest flower, behold the lily, 
Blooming in the sunny ray : 

Let the blast sweep o'er the valley, 
See it prostrate on the clay. 

Hear the wood -lark charm the forest, 
Telling o er his little joys : 

Hapless bird ! a prey the surest, 
To each pirate of the skies. 

Dearly bought, the hidden treasure, 

Finer feeling can bestow ; 
Chords that vibrate sweetest pleasure, 

Thrill the deepest notes of woe. 



CXLIII 



Stfness, 



SENT TO A GENTLEMAN WHOM HE HAD 
OFFENDED. 



[The too hospitable board of Mrs. Riddel occasioned these repent- 
ant strains : they were accepted, as they were meant by the party. 
The poet had, it seems, not only spoken of mere titles and rank with 
disrespect, but had allowed his tongue unbridled licence of speech, on 
the claim of political importance, and domestic equality, which 
Mary Woolstoncroft and her followers patronized, at which "Mrs. 
Riddel affected to be grievously offended.] 



Th t j: friend whom wild from wisdom's way, 
The fumes of wine infuriate send ; 

(Not moony madness more astray ;) 
Who but deplores that hapless friend ? 

Mine was th' insensate frenzied part, 
Ah, why should I such scenes outlive! 

Scenes so abhorrent to my heart ' 
'Tis thine to pity and forgive 



CXLIV 

SPOKEN KV MISS FONTENELLE ON HER 
BENEFIT NIGHT. 



fThis address was spoken by Miss Fontenelle, at the Dumfries 
theatre, on the 4th of December, 1795.] 



Stile anxious to secure your partial favour, 
And not less, anxious, 6 are, this night than ever 



| A Prologue, Epilogue, or some such matter, 

'T would vamp my bill, said 1, if nothing bol- 
ter; 
I So sought a Poet, roosted near the skies, 

Told him I came to feast my curious eyes ; 

Said nothing like his works was ever printed ; 

And last, my Prologue-business slily hinted. 

" Ma'am, let me tell you," quoth my man of 
rhymes, 

" I know your bent — these arc no laughing 
times: 

Can you — but, Miss, I own I have my fears, 

Dissolve in pause — and sentimental tears ; 

With laden sighs, and solemn-rounded sen- 
tence, 

Rouse from his sluggish slumbers, fell Repent- 
ance; 

Paint Vengeance as he takes his horrid stand, 

Waving on high the desolating brand, 

Calling the storms to bear him o'er a guilty 
land ?" 

I could no more — askance the creature eyeing, 
D'ye think, said I, this face was made for cry- 

ing? 
1 11 laugh, that's poz — nay more, the world shall 

know it ; 
And so, your servant ! gloomy Master Poet! 
Firm as my creed, Sirs, 'tis my fix'd belief, 
That Misery's another word for Grief; 
I also think — so may I be a bride I 
That so much laughter, so much life enjoy'd. 

Thou man of crazy care and ceaseless sigh. 
Still under bleak Misfortune's blasting eye : 
Doom'd to that sorest task of man alive — 
To make three guineas do the work of five : 
Laugh in Misfortune's face — the beldam witch! 
Say, you'll be merry, tho' you can't be rich. 

Thou other man of care, the wretch in love, 
Who, long with jiltish arts and airs hast 

strove ; 
Who, as the boughs all temptingly project, 
Measur'st in desperate thought — a rope — thy 

neck — 
Or, where the beetling cliff o'erhangs the deep, 
Peerest to meditate the healing leap : 
Would'st thou be cur'd, thou silly, moping 

elf? 
Laugh at their follies — laugh e'en at thyself : 
Learn to despise those froAvns now so terrific, 
And love a kinder — that's your grand spe- 
cific. 

To sum up all, be merry, I advise; 

And as we're merry, may we still be wis 3, 



114 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



iJXLV. 



feeing i^isg $imttns\U 



IN A FAVOURITE CHARACTER. 



[Thf good looks and the natural acting of Miss Fontenelle pleased 
others as well as Burns. 1 know not to what character in the range 
of her personations he alludes : she was a favourite on the Dumfries 
boa rds ] 



Thine is the self-approving glow, 
On conscious honour's part ; 

And, dearest gift of heaven below, 
Thine friendship's truest heart. 

The joys refm'd of sense and taste, 
With every muse to rove : 

And doubly were the poet blest, 
These joys could he improve. 



Sweet naivete of teature, 
Simple, wild, enchanting elf, 

Not to thee, but thanks to nature, 
Thou art acting but thyself. 

Wert thou awkward, stiff, affected. 
Spurning nature, tortarieg art ; 

Loves and graces all rejected, 
Tben indeed thou'dV; act a part. 

It. XL 



CXLVI. 



fCiuloris was a JVithsriaie beauty. Love and sorrow were strongly 
mingled in her early history: that she did not look so lordly in 
other eyes as she did in those of Burns is well known : but he 
had much of the taste of an artist, and admired the elegance of her 
form, and the harmony of her motion, as much as he did her bloom- 
ing face and sweet voice.] 



'Tis Friendship's pledge, my young, fair friend, 

Nor thou the gift refuse, 
Nor with unwilling ear attend 

The moralizing muse. 

Since thou, in all thy youth and charms, 

Must bid the world adieu, 
(A world 'gainst peace in constant arms) 

To join the friendly few. 

Since thy gay morn of life o'ercast, 

Chill came the tempest's lower ; 
(And ne'er misfortune's eastern blast 

Did nip a fairer flower.) 

Since life's gay scenes must charm no more 

Still much is left behind ; 
Still nobler wealth hast thou in store — 

The comforts of the mind ! 



CXLVII. 

poetical Inscription 



FOR AN ALTAR TO INDEPENDENCE. 



[It was the fashion of the feverish times of the French RctoIo 
tion to plant tress of Liberty, and raise altars to Independence 
Heron of Kerroughtree, a gentleman widely esteemed in Galloway, 
was about to engage in an election contest, and these noble lil« 
served the purpose of announcing the candidate's sentiments on fros- 
dcm.j 



Thou of an independent mind, 
With soul resolv'd, with soul resigu'd; 
Prepar'd Power's proudest frown to brave, 
Who wilt not be, nor have a slave; 
Virtue alone who dost revere, 
Thy own reproach alone dost fear, 
Approach tins shrine, and worship hera 



CXLVIII. 

[ballad first.] 



[This is the first of several party ballads which Bums wrot? fio 
serve Patrick Heron, of Kerroughtree, in two elections for the Stex- 
artry of Kirkcudbright, in which he was opposed, first, by Gordon of 
Ualmagkie, and secondly, by the Hon. Montgomery Stewart. There 
is a personal bitterness in these lampoons, which did not mingle 
with the strains in which the poet recorded the contest between 
Miller and Johnstone. They are printed here as matters of poetry, 
and I feel sure that none will be displeased, and some will smile.] 



Whom will you send to London town, 

To Parliament and a' that ? 
Or wha in a' the country round 
The best deserves to fa' that ? 
For a' that, and a' that, 
Thro' Galloway and a' that ; 
Where is the laird or belted knight 
That best deserves to fa' that ? 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



IJ5 



Wha sees Kerroughtree's open yett, 

And wha is't never saw that ? 
Who ever wi' Kerroughtree meets 
And has a douht of a' that? 

For a' that, and a' that, 
Here's Heron yet for a' that, 
The independent patriot, 
The honest man, an' a' that. 



Ilio' wit and worth in either sex, 
St. Mary's Isle can shaw that ; 
Wi' dukes an' lords let Selkirk mix, 
And weel does Selkirk fa' that. 
For a' that, an' a' that, 
Here's Heron yet for a* that ! 
The independent commoner 
Shall be the man for a' that. 



lint why should we to nobles jouk, 

And it's against the law that ; 
For why, a lord may be a gouk 
Wi' ribbon, star, an' a' that. 
For a' that, an' a' that, 
Here's Heron yet for a' that ! 
A lord may be a lousy loun, 
Wi' ribbon, star, an' a' that. 



A beardless boy comes o'er the hills, 

Wi' uncle's purse an' a' that ; 
But we'll hae ane frae 'mang oursels, 
A man we ken, an' a' that. 

For a' that, an' a' that, 
Here's Heron yet for a' that ! 
For we're not to be bought an' sold 
Like naigs, an' nowt, an' a' that. 



Then let ns drink the Stewartry, 

Kerroughtree's laird, an' a' that, 
Our representative to be, 
For weel ha's worthy a' that. 
For a' that, an' a* that, 
Here's Heron yet for a' that. 
A House of Commons such as he, 
They would be blest that saw that. 



CXLIX. 

Z\}t p?eton ftallafca. 
[ballad second.] 



[In this ballad tiie poet gathers together, after the ma.inerof " Fy 
let us a' to the bridal," all the leading electors of the Stewaibry, wit." 
befriended Heron, or opposed him ; and draws their poi traits in the 
colours of light or darkness, according to the complexion of their poli- 
tics. Ho Is too severe in most instances, and in some he is venom- 
ous. On the Earl of Galloway's family, and on the M ar- 
rays of Broughton and Caillie, as well as on Busliby of '1 inwald- 
dowhs, he pours his hottest satire. Hut words which are unjust, ni 
undeserved, fall off their victims like rain-drops from a vril J -duck's 
wing. The Murrays of liroughton and Caillie have long borne, 
from the vulgar, the stigma of treachery to the cause of I'rince 
Charles Stewart: from such infamy the family is wholly free : the 
traitor, Murray, was of a race now extinct ; and while he was betray- 
ing the cause in which so much noble and gallant blood was shed 
Murray of Broughton and Caillie was performing the dudes of hi 
honourable and loyal man : he was, like his great-grandson now, re 
presenting his native district in parliament.] 



THE ELECTIO N. 



Fy, let us a ? to Kirkcudbright, 

For there will be bickerin' there ; 
For Murray's 1 light-horse are to muster, 

And 0, how the heroes will swear ! 
An' there will be Murray commander, 

And Gordon 2 the battle to win ; 
Like brothers they'll stand by each other, 

Sae knit in alliance an' kin. 



An' there will be black-lippit Johnnie,' 

The tongue o' the trump to them a' ; 
An he get na hell for his haddin' 

The deil gets na justice ava' ; 
An' there will be Kempleton's birkie, 

A boy no sae black at the bane, 
But, as for his fine nabob fortune, 

We'll e'en let the subject alane. 



An' there will be Wigton's new sheriff, 

Dame Justice fu' brawlie has sped, 
She's gotten the heart of a Bushby, 

But, Lord, what's become o' the head ? 
An' there will be Cardoness, 4 Esquire, 

Sae mighty in Cardoness' eyes ; 
A wight that will weather damnation, 

For the devil the prey will despise. 



An' there will be Douglasses 5 doughty. 
New christ'ning towns far and near ; 

Abjuring their democrat doings, 
By kissing the — o' a peer ; 

» Murray, of Broughton and Caillie- 

2 Gordon, of Balmagbk. 

3 Bushby, of TinwaltMowns. 

4 Maxwell of Cardans®. 

& The iJoiiclueses, >ji\)rji*utltown ar.u Cactte-Itouglas. 



116 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



An' there will be Kenmure 1 sae gen'rous, 
Whose honour is proof to the storm, 

To save them from stark reprobation, 
He lent them his name to the firm. 



But we winna mention Redcastle, 2 

The body e'en let him escape ! 
He'd venture the gallows for siller, 

An' 'twere na the cost o' the rape. 
An' where is our king's lord lieutenant, 

Saefam'd for his gratefu' return ? 
The billie is gettin' his questions, 

To say in St. Stephen's the morn. 



An' there will be lads o' the gospel 

Muirhead 3 wha's as gude as he's true ; 
An' there will be Buittle's 4 apostle, 

Wha's more o' the black than the blue ; 
An' there will be folk from St. Mary's, 5 

A house o' great merit and note, 
The deil ane but honours them highly, — 

The deil ane will gie them his vote 1 



An' there will be wealthy young Richard, 6 

Dame Fortune should hing by the neck ; 
For prodigal, thriftless, bestowing, 

His merit had won him respect : 
An' there will be rich brother nabobs, 

Tho' nabobs yet men of the first, 
An' there will be Collieston's 7 whiskers, 

An' Qnintin, o' lads not the worst. 



An' there will be stamp-office Johnnie, 8 

Tak tent how ye purchase a dram ; 
An' there will be gay Cassencarrie, 

An' there will be gleg Colonel Tarn ; 
An' there will be trusty Kerroughtree, 9 

Whose honour was ever his law, 
If the virtues were packed in a parcel, 

His worth might be sample for a'. 



An' can we forget the auld major, 

Wha'll ne'er be forgot in the Greys, 
Our natt'ry we'll keep for some other, 

Ilim only 'tis justice to praise. 
An' there will be maiden Kilkerran, 

And also Barskimming's gude knight, 
An' there will be roarin' Birtwhistle, 

Wha luckily roars in the right. 



* Gordon, afterwards Viscx,ui.t Kcnmore. 
e Laurie, of Redcastle. 

3 Morehead, Minister of Urr. 

• The Minister of Buittle. 

5 Earl of Selkirk's family. 

6 Oswald, of Auchencruive. 

1 Copland, of Collieston and Blackwood. 
f ."ohn Synie, of the Stamp-office. 
" Heron, of Kerroughtree. 



An' there, frae the Niddisdale borders^ 

Will mingle the Maxwells in droves ; 
Teugh Johnnie, staunch Geordie, an' Waiie, 

That griens for the fishes an' loaves; 
An' there will be Logan Mac Douall, 1 

Sculdudd'ry an* he will be there, 
An' also the wild Scot of Galloway, 

Sodgerin', gunpowder Blair. 



Then hey the chaste interest o" Broughton, 

An' hey for the blessings 'twill bring ? 
It may send Balmaghie to the Commons, 

In Sodom 'twould make him a king; 
An' hey for the sanctified M y, 

Our land who wi' chapels has stor'd ; 
He founder' d his horse among harlots, 

But gied the auld naig to the Lord. 



CL. 

STfje herein 33alla&* 
[ballad third.] 



[This third and last ballad was written on the contest between 
Heron and Stewart, which followed close on that with Gordon 
Heron carried the election, but was unseated by the decision of 2 
Committee of the House of Commons : a decision which it is sa ri 
he took so much to heart that it affected his health, and shortened 
his life.] 



AN EXCELLENT NEW SONG. 

Tune. — " Buy broom besoms." 

Wha will buy my troggin, 

Fine election ware ; 
Broken trade o' Broughton, 
A' in high repair. 

Buy braw troggin, 

Frae the banks o' Dee ; 
Wha wants troggin 
Let him come to me. 

There's a noble Earl's 2 

Fame and high renown 
For an auld sang — 

Its thought the gudes were stowu. 
Buy braw troggin, tco. 

Here's the worth o' Broughton 3 

In a needle's eej 
Here's a reputation 

Tint by Balmaghie. 

Buy braw troggin, &e. 

' Colonel Macdouall, of Logan 

2 The Earl of Galloway. 

3 Murray, of Rroughton and Calllie 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



117 



Here's an honest conscience 

Might a prince adorn ; 
Frae the downs o' Tinwald 1 — 

So was never worn. 

Buy braw troggin, &c. 

Hero's its stuff and lining, 

Car don ess* 2 head; 
Fine for a sodger 

A' the wale o' lead. 

Buy braw troggin, &o. 

Here's a little wadset 

Buittle's 3 scrap o' truth, 
Pawn'd in a gin-shop 

Quenching holy drouth. 

Buy braw troggin, &c. 

Here's armorial bearings 

Frae the manse o' Urr ; 4 
Tlie crest, an auld crab-apple 

Rotten at the core. 

Buy braw troggin, &c. 

Here is Satan's picture, 

Like a bizzard gled, 
Pouncing poor Redcastle, 5 

Sprawlin' as a taed. 

Buy braw troggin, &c. 

Here's the worth and wisdom 

Collieston 6 can boast; 
By a thievish midge 

They had been nearly lost. 

Buy braw troggin, &c. 

Here is Murray's fragments 

0' the ten commands ; 
Gifted by black Jock* 

To get them aff his hands. 

Buy braw troggin, &c. 

Saw ye e'er sic troggin ? 

If to buy ye're slack, 

Hornie's turnin' chapman, 

He'll buy a' the pack. 

Buy braw troggin, 

Frae the banks o' Dee ; 
Wha wants troggin 
Let Mm come to me. 



1 Bush by, of Tinwald-downs. 
e Maxwell, of Cardoness. 

3 The Minister of Buittle. 

4 Morehead, of Urr. 

6 Lnurie, of Redcastle. 

B Copland, of Collieston an 1 Blackwood 

7 John Bushby, of Tinwald-downs. 



CLI. 

poem, 

ADDRESSED TO MR. MITCHELL, COLLECTOR 

OF EXCISE, 

Dumfries, 1796. 



[The gentleman to whom this very modest, and, under theclr 
cumstances, most affecting application for his salary was made, 
filled the office of Collector of Excise for the district, and was of a 
kind and generous nature: but few were aware that the poet vaa 
suffering both from ill-health and poverty.J 



Friend of the Poet, tried and leal, 
Wha, wanting thee, might beg or steal ; 
Alake, alake, the meikle deil 

Wi' a' his witches 
Are at it, skelpin' jig and reel, 

In my poor pouches ! 

I modestly fu' fain wad hint it, 
That one pound one, I sairly want it, 
If wi' the hizzie down ye sent it, 

It would be kind ; 
And while my heart wi' life-blood dunted 

I'd bear't in mind. 

So may the auld year gang out moaning 
To see the new come laden, groaning, 
Wi' double plenty o'er the loanin 

To thee and thine ; 
Domestic peace and comforts crowning 

The hale design. 



^ogtscrtpt. 

Ye've heard this while how I've been licket, 
And by fell death was nearly nicket; 
Grim loon ! he got me by the fecket, 

And sair me sheuk ; 
But by guid luck I lap a wicket, 

And turn'd a neuk. 

But by that health, I've got a share o't, 
And by that life, I'm promised mair o't* 
My hale and weel I'll tak a care o't, 

A ten tier way: 
Then farewell folly, hide and hair o't 

For ance and aye< 



118 



THE POETICAL WORKS OF ROBERT BURNS 



CLII 

TO 

0LM $m£ Eefoatg, 

DUMFRIES. 
wjTii Johnson's ' musical museum.' 

[Miss Jessy Lewars watched over the declining days of the poet, 
with the affectionate reverence of a daughter : for this she has the 
allent gratitude of all who admire the genius of Burns ; she has re- 
ceived more, the thanks of the poet himself, expressed in verses not 
destined soon to die.] 

Thine be the volumes, Jessy fair, 
And with them take the Poet's prayer ; 
That fate may in her fairest page, 
With every kindliest best presage, 
Of future bliss enrol thy name : 
With native worth, and spotless fame, 
And wakeful caution still aware 
Of ill — but chief, man's felon snare ; 
All blameless joys on earth we find, 
And all the treasures of the mind — 
These be thy guardian and reward ; 
So prays thy faithful friend, The Bard. 
June, 26, 1796. 



CLIII. 

^ocm on %\U, 

ADDRESSED TO 

COLONEL DE PEYSTER, 

DUMFRIES, 1796. 



[This is supposed to be the last Poem written by the hand, or 
conceived by the muse of Burns. The person to whom it is addressed 
was Colonel of the gentlemen Volunteers of Dumfries, in whose 
ranks Hums was a private : he was a Canadian by birth, and prided 
himself on having defended Detroit, against the united efforts of the 
French and Americans. He was rough and austere, and thought the 
science of war the noblest of all sciences : he affected a taste for lite- 
rature, and wrote verses.] 

My honoured colonel, deep I feel 
Your interest in the Poet's weal ; 
Ah I now sma' heart hae I to speel 

The steep Parnassus, 
Surrounded thus by bolus pill, 

And potion glasses. 



j O what a canty warld were it, 

j Would pain and care and sickness spare it i 

! And fortune favour worth and merit, 

? As they deserve ! 

j (And aye a rowth, roast beef and claret ; 

Syne, wha wad starve ?) 

Dame Life, tho' fiction out may trick her, 
And in paste gems and frippery deck her $ 
Oh ! flickering, feeble, and unsicker 

I've found her still, 
Ay wavering like the willow- wicker, 

'Tween good and. ill, 

Then that curst carmagnole, auld Satan, 
Watches, like baudrons by a rattan, 
Our sinfu' saul to get a claut on 

Wi' felon ire; 
Syne, whip ! his tail ye'll ne'er cast saut on— 

He's aS 1 like fire. 

Ah Nick ! ah Nick ! it is na fair, 
First shewing us the tempting ware, 
Bright wines and bonnie lasses rare, 

To put us daft ; 
Syne, weave, unseen, thy spider snare 

O' hell's damn'd waft. 

Poor man, the flie, aft bizzes bye, 
And aft as chance he comes thee nigh, 
Thy auld damn'd elbow yeuks wi' joy, 

And hellish pleasure ; 
Already in thy fancy's eye, 

Thy sicker treasure ! 

Soon heels-o'er-gowdie ! in he gangs, 
And like a sheep head on a tangs, 
Thy girning laugh enjoys his pangs 

And murd'ring wrestle, 
As, dangling in the wind, he hangs 

A gibbet's tasseL . 

But lest you think I am uncivil, 

To plague you with this draunting drivel, 

Abjuring a' intentions evil, 

I (mat my pen : 
The Lord preserve us frae the devil! 

Amen i amen J 






EPITAPHS, EPIGUAMS,- FRAGMENTS 



i. 

On X\)t ^utfror'S Jailer. 

rWi'Uam Bumess merited his son's eulogiums : he was an exam- 
pit of piety, patience, and fortitude.] 

O ye whose cheek the tear of pity stains, 

Draw near with pious rev'rence and attend ! 
Here lie the loving husband's dear remains, 

The tender father and the gen'rous friend. 
The pitying heart that felt for human woe ; 

The dauntless heart that feared no human 
pride ; 
The friend of man, to vice alone a foe ; 

" For ev'n his failings lean'd to virtue's side." 



II 
ft. &., 3E*q. 



[Robert Aiken Esq., to whom " The Cotter's Saturday Night" iG 
addressed : a kind and generous man.] 



Know thou, stranger to the fame 
Of this much lov'd, much honour'd name ! 
(For none that knew him need be told) 
A warmer heart death ne'er made cold. 



III. 

<&n a iFrtcnD. 



[The name of this friend is neither mentioned nor alluded to in 
sny of the poet's productions. ] 

An honest man here lies at rest 
As e'er God with his image blest ! 
The friend of man, the friend of truth. ; 
The friend of age, and guide of youth ; 



Few hearte like his, with virtue warm it, 
Few heads wiih knowledge so inform'd : 
If there's another world, he lives in bliss ; 
If there is none, he made the best of this. 



IV. 

Jpor ^rabin Hamilton. 



[These lines allude to the persecution which Hamilton endured foi 
presuming to ride on Sunday, and say, " damn it," in the presence 
of the minister of Mauchline.] 



The poor man weeps — here Gavin sleeps, 
Whom canting wretches blam'd : 

But with such as he, where'er he be, 
May I be sav'd or damn'd ! 



0n flBtt ^ohnng. 



HIC JACET WEE JOHNNY. 



[Wee Jonny was John Wilson, printer of the Kilmarnock edi- 
tion of Burns's Poems: he doubted the successof the speculation, and 
the poet punished him in these lines, which he printed unaware of 
their meaning.] 



V>?hoe'er thou art, O reader, know, 
That death has murder'd Johnny i 

An' here his body lies fu' low — 
For saul he ne'er had ony. 



no 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



VI. 

INNKEEPER, M A V C H L I N E. 



f John Dove kept the Whitefoord Arms in Mauchline : his religior 
is made to consist of a comparative appreciation of the liquors hi 
pt.| 



Here lies Johnny Pidgeon ; 
AY hat was his religion ? 

Wha e'er desires to kefj, 
To some other warl' 
Maun follow the carl, 

For here Johnny Pidgeon had nane ! 

Strong ale was ablution — 
Small beer, persecution, 

A dram was memento mori ; 
But a full flowing bowl 
Was the saving his soul, 

And port was celestial glory. 



VII. 

(Bn a S®ag m JWauc&Kn*. 



[This laborious and useful wag was 
sleest pawkie thief," of one of the poet's fi 
West Indies 1 



he " Dear Smith, thou 
at epistles: he died in xfoi 



Lament him, Mauchline husbands a', 

He aften did assist ye ; 
For had ye staid whole weeks awa, 

Your wives they ne'er had missed ye. 
Ye Mauchline bairns, as on ye press 

To school in bands thegither, 
O tread ye lightly on his grass, — 

Perhaps he was your father. 



vni. 

<9n a ©ekhratcD ftulfag lEltier. 



[Soutcr Hood obtained the distinction of this Epigram by his im- 
pertinent enquiries into what he called the moral delinquencies of 
Durns.J 



Here souter Hood in death does sleep; — 

To h — 11, if he's gane thither, 
Satan gio him thy gear to keep, 

He'll liaud it weel thegither. 



rx. 

<&n a Noteg polemic. 



[This noisy polemic was a mason of tne name of James Hum- 
phrey: he astonished Cromek by an eloquent dissertation on free 
grace, effectual-calling, and predestination. J 



Below thir stanes lie Jamie's banes : 

O Death, it's my opinion, 
Thou ne'er took such a blethrin' b — cb 

Into thy dark dominion j 



On i$tfeg ^can Bcott. 



[The heroine of these complimentary line! lived in Ayr, and 
cheered the poet with her sweet voice, as well as her sweet looks, ) 



Oh ! had each Scot of ancient times 
Been Jeany Scott, as thou art, 

The bravest heart on English ground 
Had yielded like a coward ! 



XL 



On a f^enpetket) (£ountt£ Jjqtdre, 



(Though satisfied with the s 
made a second attempt.] 



; of these lines, the poet 



As father Adam first was fool'd, 
A case that's still too common, 

Here lies a man a woman rul'd, 
The devil rul'd the woman. 



XIL 

On the j£am* 



[The second attempt did not in Burns'3 fancy exhaust this Friifti'u] 
subject : he tried his hand a^ain.] 



O Death, had'st tlmu but spared Iris life, 

Whom we this day lament, 
We freely wad exchanged the wife, 

And a' been weel content ! 






OF ROBEPI BURNS. 



121 



Ev'n as he is, cauld in his graflf, 
The swap we yet will do't ; 

Take thou the carlin's carcase aff, 
Thou'se get the soul to boot. 



XIII. 
®n tlje <£anu. 



fin these .ines he bade farewell to tills sordid dame, who lived, it 
s said, in Netherplace, near Mauchline.] 



One Queen Artemisia, as old stories tell, 

When depriv'd of her husband she loved so 
well, 

In respect for the love and affection he'd show'd 
her, 

She reduc'd him to dust and she drank up the 
powder. 

But Queen Netherplace, of a different com- 
plexion, 

When call'd on to order the fun'ral direction. 

Would have eat her dear lord, on a slentlei' 
pretence, 

Not to show her respect, but to save the sz- 
pense. 



XIV. 

©!)* PHghJanU WLeltomt. 



f Burns took farewell of the hospitalities of the Scotfith Highland* 
la these happy lines.] 



When Death's dark stream I ferry o'er, 
A time that surely shall come; 

In Heaven itself I'll ask no more 
Than just a Highland welcome. 



XV. 



[Smeilie, author of the Philosophy of History; a singular person, 
of re&dy wit, and negligent in nothing save his dress.] 



Shrewd Willie Smellie to Crochallan came, 
The old cock'd hat, the grey surtout, the same ; 
His bristling beard just rising in its might, 
*Twas four long nights and days to shaving 
night; 



His 



uncomb'd grizzly locks wild staring, 
thatch'd 
A head for thought profound and clear, un« 

match'd 
Yet tho' his caustic wit was biting, rude, 
His heart was warm, benevolent, and good. 



XVI 

WiUTTEN ON A WINDOW OF THE INN AT 
CARRON. 



[These lines were written on receiving what the poet considered 
an uncivil refusal to look at the works of the celebrated Carroc 
foundry.] 



We came na here to view your warks 

In hopes to be mair wise, 
But only, lest we gang to hell, 

It may be nae surprise : 

For whan we tirl'd at your door, 
Your porter dought na hear us ; 

Sae may, shou'd we to hell's yetts come 
Your billy Satan sair us ! 



XVII 



[Burns wrote this reproof in a Shakspeare, which he found sp-Ers> 
diily bound and gilt, but unread and worm-eaten, in a noble person's 
library.] 



Through and through the inspir'd leaves 
Ye maggots make your windings ; 

But oh 1 respect his lordship's taste., 
And spare his golden bindings. 



XVIII. 

Etneg en Stirling. 



[On visiting Stirling, Burns was stung at beholding nothing bi*t 
desolation in the palaces of cur princes and our halli of legislation, 
and vented his indignation in these unloyal lines : some one has 
said chat they were written by his companion, Nicol, but this wants 
confirmation.] 



Here Stuarts once in glory reigned, 
And laws for Scotland's weal ordained ; 
But now unroofed their palace stands, 
Their sceptre's swayed by other hands ; 
The injured Stuart line is gone, 
A race outlandish fills their throne ; 
An idiot race, to honour lost; 
Who know them best despise them most 
i r 



l'2 l 2 



THE P0ST1CAL WOKKs 



XIX. 

Zfyz Reproof. 

[The Imprudence of making the lines written at Stirling public 
was hinted to Bums by a frier.d ; he said, " Oh, but I mean to re- 
prove myself for it," which he did in these words.] 

Rash mortal, and slanderous Poet, thy name 
Shall no longer appear in the records of fame ; 
Dost not know that old Mansfield, who writes 

like the Bible, ' 
Says the more 'tis a truth, Sir, the more 'tis a 

libel? 



XX, 



[The minister of Gladsmuir wrote a censure on the Stirling lines, 
Intimating, as a priest, that Burns's race was nigh run, and as a 
prophet, that oblivion awaited his muse. The poet replied to the 
expostulation. ] 



Like Esop's lion, Burns says, sore I feel 
All others' scorn — but damn that ass's heel. 



XXI. 

Htncs 

WRITTEN UNDER THE PICTURE OF THE 
CELEBRATED MISS BURNS. 



[ The Miss Burns of these lines was well known in those dacs co 
the bucks of the Scottish metropolis : there is still a letter by thepi>et, 
claiming from the magistrates of Edinburgh a liberal interpretation 
of the laws of social morality, in behalf of his fair namesake.j 

Cease, ye prudes, your envious railings, 
Lovely Burns has charms — confess : 

True it is, she had one failing — 
Had a woman ever less ? 



XXII. 
lE.rtcmpore (n tlje ©ourt of jetton. 

|Tnese portraits are strongly coloured with the partialities of the 
poet: Dur.das had offended his pride, Erskine had pleased his va- 
nity ; iind as he felt he spoke.] 

LORD ADVOCATE. 

He elench'd his pamphlets in his fist, 

He quoted and he hinted, 
'Till in a declamation-mist, 

His argument he tint it : 
He gaped for't, hegrap'd for't, 

He fand it was awa, man ; 
But riiat his common sense came short, 

He eked out wi' law, man. 



22 K. EllSEINE. 

Collected Harry stood a wee, 

Then open'd out his arm, man j 
His lordship sat wi' ruefu' e'e, 

And ey'd the gathering storm, maii : 
Like wind-driv'n hail it did assail, 

Or torrents owre a linn, man ; 
The Bench sae wise lift up their eyea, 

Half-wauken'd wi' the din. man. 



XXIII. 



[A lady who expressed herself with incivility about her husband* 
potations with Burns, was rewarded by these sharp lines.] 



Curs'd be the man, the poorest wretch in life, 
The crouching vassal to the tyrant wife ! 
Who has no will but by her high permission ; 
Who has not sixpence but in her possession ; 
Who must to her his dear friend's secret tell ; 
Who dreads a curtain lecture worse than hell I 
Were such the wife had fallen to my part, 
I'd break her spirit, or I'd break her heart ; 
I'd charm her with the magic of a switch, 
I'd kiss her maids, and kick the perverse b — h. 



XXIV 

Written at Xnberarg. 



[Neglected Rttheinn of Inverary,, on account of the presence of seme 
northern chiefs, and overlooked by b-is Grace of Argyll, the poet let loose 
his wrath and his rhyme : tradition speaks of a pursuit which took 
place on the part of the Campbell, when he was told of his mistake 
and of a resolution not to be soothed on the part of the bard.", 



Whoe'er he be that sojourns here, 

I pity much his case, 
Unless he's come to wait upon 

The Lord their God, his Grace. 

There's naething here but Highland pride 
And Highland cauld and hunger; 

If Providence has sent me here, 
'Twas surely in his anger. 



OF ROBERT DURNS. 



12J 



XXV. 



^n lEIp&ington'g ^ranglatfona 



MARTIAL S EPIGRAMS. 



[Burns thus relates the origin of this sally :— 

" Stepping at a merchant's shop in Edinburgh, a friend of mine 
one day put Elphinston's Translation of Martial into my hand, and 
desired my opinion of it. I asked permission to write my opinion on 
a blank leaf of the book ; which being granted, I wrote this epi- 
gram.] 



O thou, whom poesy abhors, 
Whom prose has turned out of doors, 
Heard' st thou that groan ? proceed no further; 
'Twas laurelled Martial roaring murther ! 



XXVI. 

fescrtptton. 



ON THE HEADSTOKE OF FEBGUSSON. 



[Some social friends, whose good feelings were better than their 
taste, have ornamented with supplemental iron work the headstone 
. which Burns erected, with this inscription to the memory of his 
brother bard, Fergusson.] 



Here lies 

Robert Fergusson, Poet. 

Born, September, 5, 1751 , 

Died, Oct. 15, 1774 



No sculptured marble here, nor pompous lay, 
te No storied urn nor animated bust ;" 

This simple stone directs pale Scotia's way 
To pour her sorrows o'er her poet's dust. 



XXVII. 

^n a jkhoolmagter. 



I The Willie Michie of this epigram was, it is said, schoolmaster of 
the parish of Cleish, in Fifeshire ; he met Burns during his first 
visit to Edinburgh. ] 



Here lie Willie Michie's banes ; 
O, Satan ! when ye tak him, 
Gi' him the schooihr o ; your weans, 
For clever de'ils he'll make them. 



XXVI II. 
& ©race before 29(nnet. 



[This was an extempore grace, pronounced by the poet at A dinner- 
table, in Dumfries : he was ever ready to contribute the small c'liui^e 
of rhyme, for either the use or amusement of a company.] 



O Thou, who kindly dost provide 

For every creature's want ! 
We bless thee, God of Nature wide, 

For all thy goodness lent : 
And if it please thee, Heavenly Guide, 

May never worse be sent; 
But, whether granted or denied, 

Lord bless us with content ! 

Amen. 



XXIX. 

©race before J$eat. 



[Pronounced, tradition says, 
leigh-Park.J 



t the table of Mrs. Riddel, c f Wood 



O Thou in whom we live and move, 

Who mad'st the sea and shore, 
Thy goodness constantly we prove, 

And grateful would adore. 
And if it please thee, Power above, 

Still grant us with such store, 
The friend we trust, the fair we love. 

And we desire no more. 



XXX. 

©n Wat. 



[The name of the object of this fierce epigram migftt bafour. 
ut in gratifying curiosity, rome pain would be inflicted, ) 



Sic a reptile was Wat, 

Sic a miscreant slave, 
That the very worms damn'd hira 

When laid in his grave. 
" In his flesh there's a famine," 

A starv'd reptile cries ; 
H An' his heart is rank poises/* 

Another replies. 



124 



THE POETICAL WOKKS 



XXXI. 

©n ©aptatn jptancte <£irog*. 



[This was a festive sally : it is said that Grose, who \ 
though lie joined in the laugh, did not relish it] 



The devil got notice that Grose was a-dying, 
So whip! at the summons, old Satan came 

flying ; 
But when he approach'd where poor Francis 

lay moaning, 
And saw each bed-post with its burden a-groan- 

ing, 
Astonish' d ! confounded ! cry'd Satan, " By 

God, 
I'll want him, ere I take such a damnable 

load I" 



XXXII 

Impromptu, 

TO MISS AINSLIE. 



[These lines were occasioned by a sermon on sin, to which the 
poet and Miss Ainslie of Berrywell had listened, during his visit to 
the Border, j 



Fair maid you need not take the hint. 

Nor idle texts pursue : — 
'Twas guilty sinners that he meant, 

Not angels such as you ! 



XXXIII. 

Zlt l&irfc of Eamhtgton. 



[Oi.e rough, cold day Burns listened to a sermon, so little to his 
liking, in the kirk of Lamington, in Clydesdale, that he left this pro- 
test on the seat where he sat] 



A s cauld a wind as ever blew, 
A caulder kirk, and in't but few; 
As cauld a minister's e'er spak, 
Ye'se a' be het ere I come back. 



XXXIV. 

Z\\t SUague anti <£obcnant. 



, m answer to * gen de-man who called the solemn League E^d Co- 
7enant ridiculous and fanatical.] 



The solemn League and Covenant 
Cost Scotland blood — cost Scotland tears : 

Bur it sealed freedom's sacred cause — 
If thou'rt a slave, indulge thy sneers, 



XXXV. 

S&ritten on a ^ane of €Hagg f 

IN THE INN AT MOFFAT. 



[A friend asked the poet why God made Miss Davies so little, and 
a lady who was with her, so large : before the ladies, who had just 
passed the window, were out of sight, the following answer was re- 
corded on a pane of glass.] 



Ask why God made the gem so small, 
And why so huge the granite ? 

Because God meant mankind should set 
The higher value on it. 



XXXVI. 

j&pofcen, 

ON BEING APPOINTED TO THE EXCISE. 



[Bums took no pleasure in the name of gauger: the situatior 
was unworthy of him, and he seldom hesitated to say so.] 



Searching auld wives' barrels, 

Oeh — hon ! the day ! 
That clarty barm should stain my laurels ; 

But — what' 11 ye say ! 
These movin' things ca'd wives and weans 
Wad move the very hearts o' stanes ! 



XXXVII. 
QiM on #ttg. 3EUmWe. 



[The poet wrote these lines in Mrs. Riddel's box in the Dumfrle 
Theatre, in the winter of 1794: he was much moved by Mrs. Kern- 
ble's noble and pathetic acting.] 



Kemble, thou cur'st my unbelief 

Of Moses and his rod ; 
At Yarico's sweet notes of grief 

The rock with tears had flow'd. 






XXXVIII. 
©o J&r. jfegme. 



[John Syme, of Ryedale, a rhymer, a wit, and a gentleman of 
education and intelligence, was, while Burns resided in Dumfries, 
his chief companion : he was bred to the law.] 



No more of your guests, be they titled or not, 
And cook'ry the first in the nation : 

Who is proof to thy personal converse and wit, 
Is proof to all other temptation. 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



125 



XXXIX. 

WITH A PRESENT OF A DOZEN OF PORTER. 

[The tavern where these lines were written was kept by a wan- 
dering mortal of the name of Smith ; who, having visited in some 
capacity or other the Holy Land, puton his sign, " John Smith, from 
Jerusalem." He was commonly known by the name of Jerusalem 
JoVin.J 

O, had the malt thy strength of mind, 
Or hops the flavour of thy wit, 

'Twere drink for first of human kind, 
A gift that e'en for Syme were fit. 

Jffrvsal&m Tavern, Dumfries. 



XL. 

QL ©race. 



[This Grace was spoken at the table of Ryedale, where to the 
best cookery was added the richest wine, as well as the rarest wit: 
Hyslop was a dktiller.] 



Lord, we thank and thee adore, 
For temporal gifts we little merit ; 

At present we will ask no more, 
Let William Hyslop give the spirit. 



XLI. 
Inscription on a dUobUt. 



[Written on a dinner-goblet by the hand of Bums. Syme, exaspe- 
rated at having his set of crystal defaced, threw the goblet under 
the grate : it was taken up by his clerk, and it is still preserved as a 
curiosity.] 



There's death in the cup — sae beware ! 

Nay, more — there is danger in touching ; 
But wha can avoid the fell snare ? 

The man and his wine's sae bewitching 1 



XLII. 
®&e limitation. 



[Burns :.tad a happy knack m acknowledging civilities : theselines 
wire Written with a pencil on the paper in which Mrs. Hyslop, of 
Lccluuttou inclosed an invitation to dinner.] 



The King's most humble servant I, 
Can scarcely spare a minute ; 

But I am yours at dinner-time 
Or else the devil's in it. 



XLIII. 
%\)t @r«o of ^ofcertg. 



[When the Commissioner! of Excise cold Burns that he wax re- 
act, and not to think; he took out his pencil and wroce •'The 
Creed of Poverty."] 



In politics if thou would'st mix, 
And mean thy fortunes be; 

Bear this in mind — be deaf and blind; 
Let great folks hear and see. 



XLIV. 



Written in a laon'g ^ocfeet»2Soott. 



f That Burns loved liberty and sympathised with those who wrxg 
warring in its cause, these lines, and hundreds more, sufficient!* 
testify.] 



Grant me, indulgent Heav'n, that I may livo 
To see the miscreants feel the pains they give. 
Deal Freedom's sacred treasures free as air, 
Till slave and despot be but things which were. 



XLV. 

Hl\)t jargon's 3Loofe0. 



)Some sarcastic person said, in Burns's hearing, that there was 
falsehood in trie Reverend Dr. Burnside's looks : the poet mused for a 
t, and replied in lines which have less of truth than point.] 



That there is falsehood in his looks 

I must and will deny ; 
They say their master is a knave — 

And sure they do not lie. 



XL VI. 

®j)c £Toat).1£atcr. 



[This reproof was administered extempore to one of the guests at 
the table of Maxwell of Terraughty, whose whole talk was of dul res 
with whom he had dined, and of earls with whom he had supped." 



What of earls with whom you have supt, 
And of dukes that you dined with yestreen V 

Lord I a louse, Sir, is still but a louse, 
Though it crawl on the curl of a queen. 



126 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



XLVII. 

©n ftobert fttti&d. 



[I copied these lines from a pane of glass in the Friar's Carse Her- 
mitage, on which they had been traced with the diamond of Burns.] 



To Riddel, much- lamented man, 

This ivied cot was dear ; 
Reader, dost value matchless worth ? 

This ivied cot revere. 



XL VIII. 



f Bums being; called on for a song, by his brother volunteers, c 
ft festive occasion, gave the following Toast.] 



Instead of a song, boys, I'll give you a toast — 

Here's the memory of those on the twelfth that 
we lost ! — 

That we lost, did I say ? nay, by Heav'n, that 
we found ; 

For their fame it shall last while the world goes 
round. 

The next in succession, I'll give you— the King ! 

Whoe'er would betray him, on high may he 
swing ; 

And here's the grand fabric, our free Consti- 
tution, 

As built on the base of the great Revolution ; 

And longer with politics not to be cramm'd, 

Be Anarchy curs' d, and be Tyranny damn'd; 

And who would to Liberty e'er prove disloyal, 

May his son be a hangman, and he his first 
trial. 



XLIX. 



T E R S O N 



riCKNAMED 



CfK JHarquig. 



m a moment when vanity prevailed against prudence, this penson, 
wiio kept a respectable public-house in Dumfries, desired Burns to 
write his epitaph.] 



Here lies a mock Marquis whose titles were 

shamm'd ; 
If sver he rise, it will be to be damn'd. 



L. 
fttae* 

WRITTEH OX A WINDOW, 



[Bums traced these words with a diamond, on the wirdow uf the 
King's Arms Tavern, Dumfries, as a reply, or reproof, to one who 
had been witty on excisemen, j 



Ye men of wit and wealth, why all this sneer- 
ing, 

'Gainst poor Excisemen ? give the cause a 
hearing ; 

What are your landlords' rent-rolls ? teazing 
ledgers : 

What premiers — what ? even monarchs' mighty 
gaugers : 

Nay, what are priests, those seeming godly 
wise men ? 

What are they, pray, but spiritual Excisemen f 



LI. 

Erne* 



written on a window of thk g-lobe 
tavern, dumfries. 



[The Globe Tavern was Burns** favourite " Howff," as he culiai 
i". It had other attractions than good liquor ; there lived " Anna, 
with the golden locks."] 



The graybeard, old Wisdom, may boast of his 
treasures, 
Give me with gay Folly to live ; 
I grant him his calm-blooded, time-settled pie? 
sures, 
But Folly has raptures to give. 



LII. 
GTfce &clfeirfe Grace. 



(On a visit to St. Mary's Isle, Burns was requested by '.he nofck 1 
owner to say grace to dinner; he obeyed in these lines, now known 
in Galloway by the name of " The Selkirk Grace."] 



Some hae meat and canna eat, 
And some wad eat that want it. 

But we hae meat and we car eat, 
And sae the Lord be thanket/ 






OF ROBERT BURNS. 



127 



LITI. 

&o Dr. i^laacoeU, 

ON JESSIE STAIG'S RECOVERY. 



Maxwell was a skilful physician ; and Jessie Staig, the Provost's 
slrteat daughter, was a young lady of great beauty : she died early.} 



Maxwell, if merit here you crave 

That merit I deny, 
You save fair Jessie from the grave — 

An angel could not die. 



UV. 

lEpltapi). 



[These lines were traced by the hand of Burns on a goblet belong- 
ing to Gabriel Richardson, brewer, in Dumfries : it is carefully pre- 
kcrved in the family.] 



Here brewer Gabriel's fire's extinct, 

And empty all his barrels : 
He's blest — if as he brew'd he drink — 

In upright virtuous morals. 



LV. 

ON WILLIAM NICOL 



f Nicol was a scholar, of ready and rough wit, who loved a joke 
tad a gilL] 



Ye maggots feast on Nicol's brain, 
For few sic feasts ye've gotten ; 

And fix your claws in Nicol's heart, 
For deil a bit o't's rotten. 



LVI. 

<&n tf)e30eat{> ox a 2ap= 



NAMED ECHO. 



[When visiting with Syme at Kenmore Castle, Bums wrote this 
Epitaph, rather reluctantly, it is said, at the request oi the l&fiy of the 
house, in honour of hsi lap-dog.] 



In wood and wild, ye warbling throng, 

Your heavy loss deplore : 
Now hall extinct your powers of soag, 

Sweet Echo is no more. 



Ye jarring screeching things around, 
Scream your discordant joys ; 

Now half your din of tuneless sound 
With Echo silent lies. 



LVII. 
®n a KoteU Coxcomb 



[Neither Ayr, Edinburgh, nor Dumfries have contested ch/> honmn 
of producing the person on whom these lines were written:— Oftxeomb: 
are the growth of all districts.] 



Light lay the earth on Willy's breast. 
His chicken-heart so tender ; 

But build a castle on his head, 
His skull will prop it under. 



LVIII. 

0*T SSEIKG THE BEAUTIFUL SEAT OF 



Sort) Callofoan. 



[Thla, and the three succeeding Epigrams, are hasty squibs thrc wn 
maid the tumult of a contested election, and must not be taken as 
the fixed and deliberate sentiments of the poet, regarding au ancient 
an< .ithie house.] 



What dost thou in that mansion fair ? 

Flit, Galloway, and find 
Some narrow, dirty, dungeon cave, 

The picture of thy mind ! 



LiX. 
<©n \§t jtbame. 

No Stewart art thou, Galloway, 
The Stewarts all were brave; 

Besides, the Stewarts were but fools, 
Not one of them a knave. 



LX- 
©n tf>e j&ame. 

Bright ran th.v line,0 Galloway, 
Thro' many a iar-tam'd sire ! 

So ran the far-fam'd Roman way, 
So ended in a nui-a. 



J 28 



THE POETICAL WORRS 



LXI. 

•2To t!)c j£ame, 

ON THE AUTHOR BEING THREATENED WITH 
HIS RESENTMENT. 

Spare me thy vengeance, Galloway, 

In quiet let me live : 
I ask no kindness at thy hand, 

For thou hast none to give. 



LXTI. 
<8n a ©cuutv» Eatrt). 



'Mr. Maxwell, of Cardoness, afterwards Sir David, exposed himself 
to' che rhyming wrath of Burns, by his activity in the contested 
s of Heron, j 



Bless Jesus Christ, Cardoness, 

With grateful lifted eyes, 
Who said that not the soul alone 

But body too, must rise : 
For had he said, " the soul alone 

From death I will deliver ;" 
Alas ! alas ! Cardoness, 

Then thou hadst slept for ever. 



LXIII. 

0n 3ohn $uj5p£. 



[Bums, in his harshest lampoons, always admitted the teients of 
Bushby : the peasantry, who hate all clever attornies, loved to hajjila 
his character with unsparing severity.] 



Here lies John Bushby, honest man ! 
Cheat him Devil, gin ye can. 



LXIV 

Zty true Sogal Natfbea. 



[At a dinner-party, where politics ran high, lines rigned by men 
who called themselves the true loyal native* of Dumfries, wne 
banded to Burns : he took a pencil, and at once wrote this reply.] 



Ye true " Loyal Natives" attend to my song, 
In uproar and riot rejoice the night long ; 
From envy or hatred your corps is exempt, 
But where is your shield from the darts of con- 
tempt f 




LXV 
H a gutcfte. 



[Burns was observed by my friend, Dr. Copland Hutehlfttij ta 
fix, one morning, a bit of paper on the grave of a person who had 
committed suicide : on the paper these lines were pencilled.] 



Earth'd up here lies an imp o' hell, 
Planted by Satan's dibble — 

Poor silly wretch, he's damn'd hansel' 
To save the Lord the trouble. 



LXVI. 

C^itempow 

TINNED ON A LADY'S COACH. 



['• Printed," says Sir Harris Nicolas, "from a copy in Bunts'* 
hand-writing," a slight alteration in the last line is made from .m 
oral version.] 



If you rattle along like your mistress's tongue, 
Your speed will outrival the dart: 

But, a fly for your load, you'll break down on the 
road 
If ) our stuff has the rot, like her heart. 



LXVII. 

SUneg 
TOJOHN RANKIN E. 



[These lines were said to have been written by the poet co Ram- 
kine, of Adamhill, with orders to forward them when he died.) 



He who of Rankine sang lies stiff and dead, 
And a green grassy hillock hides his head ? 
Alas ! alas ! a devilish change indeed. 



LXVIII. 



[Written on the blank side of attst of wild beasts, exhibiting in 
Dumfries. •' Now," said the poet, who was then very ill, " it k fit to 
be presented to a lady."] 



Talk not to me of savages 

From Afric's burning sun, 
No savage e'er could rend my hoarfc 

As, Jessy, thou hast done. 
But Jessy's lovely hand in mine, 

A mutual faith to plight, 
Not even to view the heavenly choir 

Would be so blest a sisrlit 



it tf IIOBFRT BURNS. 



!2<J 



LXIX. 



(One day whin Burns was ill and seemed in slumber, he ob- 
nerved Jessy Le wars moving about the house with a light step lest she 
should disturb him. He took a crystal goblet containing wine- 
knd-water for moistening Iris lips, wrote these words upon it with a 
diamond, and presented it to her.] 



Fill me with the rosy wine, 
Call a toast — a toast divine ; 
Give the Poet's darling flame, 
Lovely Jessy be the name ; 
Then thou mayest freely boast, 
Thou hast given a peerless toast. 



LXX. 



,The constancy of her attendance on the poet's sick-bed .tfid 
anxiety of mind brought a slight illness upon Jessy Lewars. " You 
Diust not die vet," said the poet : " give me that goblet, and I shall 
ftrepare you for the worst." He traced these lines with his diamond, 
itnd said, " That will be a companion to ( The Toasc'"j 



Say, sages, what's the charm on earth 
Can turn Death's dart aside ? 

It is not purity and worth, 
Rise Jessy had not died. 

R. B. 



LXXL 



ON THE RECOVERY OF 



3)*$s«2 3Ufoar$. 



| A little repose brought health to the young lady. " i knew you 
* ould not die," observed the poet, with a smile : " there is a poetic 
ratson for your recovery :" he wrote, and with a feeble hand, the 
following lines.] 



But rarely seen since Nature's birth, 

The natives of the sky ; 
Yet still one seraph's left on earth, 

Fot Jessy did not die. 

It. B. 



LXXTT. 



(Tam, the Chapman, issaidby the *ate William Cobbett, who kr.t* 
him, to have been a Thomas Kennedy, a native of Ayrshire, axem 
to a mercantile house in the west of Scotland. Sir Harris Kicolai 
confounds him with the Kennedy to whom Burns addressed severa 
letters and verses, which I printed in my edition of the poet in 1«34 : 
it is perhaps enough to say that the name of the one u as Thomas, 
and the name of the other John.] 



As Tam the Chapman on a day, 
Wi 7 Death forgather'd by the way, 
Weel pleas' d he greets a wight so famous, 
And Death was nae less pleas' d wi' Thomas, 
"WTia cheerfully lays down the pack, 
And there blaws up a hearty crack ; 
His social, friendly, honest heart, 
Sae tickled Death they could na part : 
Sae after viewing knives and garters, 
Death takes him hame to gie him quarters 



LXXIII. 



[Thea.- iinss seem t 



e their origin to the precept of Mickle, 



" The present moment is our ain, 
The next we never saw.' J 



Here's a bottle and an honest friend ! 

What wad you wish for mair, man ? 
Wha kens before his life may end, 

What his share may be o' care, man ? 
Then catch the moments as they fly, 

And use them as ye ought, man ! 
Believe me, happiness is shy, 

And comes not ay when sought, man. 



LXXIV 



FThe sentiment which these lines express, was one fainuia: t 
Burns in the early, as well as concluding days of his life.) 



Though fickle Fortune has deceived me, 
She promis'd fair and perform' d but ill ; 

Of mistress, friends, and wealth bereav'd ma, 
Yet I bear a heart shall support me still. — 

I'll act with prudence as far's I'm able, 
But if success I must never find, 

Then come misfortune, I bid thee welcome 
I'll meet thee w T ith an undaunted mma 



ItfU 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



LXXV 



[The John Kennedy to whom these verses and the succeeding lies 
were addressed, lived, in I786, at Dumfries-house, and his taste was 
so much esteemed by the poet, that he submitted his *' Cotter's Satur- 
day Night" and the " Mountain Daisy" to his judgment: he seems 
to have been of a social disposition.] 



Now Kennedy, if foot or horse 

E'er bring you in by Mauchline Cross, 

L — d man, there's lasses there wad force 

A hermit's fancy, 
And down the gate in faith they're worse 

And mair unchancy. 

But as I'm sayin' please step to Dow's, 
And taste sic gear as Johnnie brews, 
Till some bit call an bring me news 

That ye are there, 
And if we dinna hae a bouze 

I'se ne'er drink mair. 



It's no I like to sit an' swallow, 
Then like a swine to piute and wallow, 
But gie me just a true good fallow, 

Wi' right ingine, 
And spunkie ance to make us mellow, 

And then we'll shine. 



Now if ye're ane o' warl's folk, 
"Wha rate the wearer by the cloak 
An' sklent on poverty their joke 

Wi" bitter sneer, 
Wi' you nae friendship I will troke, 

Nor cheap nor dear. 

But if, as I'm informed weel, 
Ye hate as ill's the very deil 
The flinty heart that canna feel — 

Come, Sir, here's taeyou! 
Ilae there's my haun, I wiss you weel 

And gude be wi' you. 

IiOBEKT BURKESS. 

Mossgiel, 3 March, 1786. 



LXXVI. 

To 51of)n Ikennctn. 

Farewell, dear friend ! may guid luck hit you, 
And 'mang her favorites admit you ! 
If e'er Detraction shore to smit you, 

May nane believe him ! 
And ony deil that thinks to get you, 

Good Lord deceive biin : 
R. B. 
KUwamocik, August , 1786. 



L XX VII. 

[Cromek found these- characteristic liLesamougtric peel's pariors. 

There's naethin like the honest nappy ' 
Whaur'll ye e'er see men sae happy, 
Or women sonsie, saft an' sappy, 

'Tween morn an' memi 
As them wha like to taste the drappie 

In glass or horn ? 

I've seen me daezt upon a time; 
I scarce could wink or see a styme ; 
Just ae hauf muchkin does me prime, 

Ought less is little, 
Then back I rattle on the rhyme, 

As gleg's a whittle. 



LXXVIJI. 

ON THE BLANK LEAF 

OF A 

Moth &s ?|anna| J&ore. 

PRESENTED BY MRS. C — . 

Thou flattering work of friendship kind, 
Still may thy pages call to mind 

The dear, the beauteous donor ; 
Though sweetly female every part, 
Yet such a head, and more the heart, 

Boes both the sexes honour, 
She showed her taste refined and just 

When she selected thee, 
Yet deviating own I must, 
For so approving me ! 

But kind still, I'll mind still 

The giver in the gift ; 
I'll bless her, and wiss her 
A Friend above the Lift, 
Mossgiel, April, 178& 



LXXiX 

TO THE MEN AND BRETHREN 

OF THE 

J& atonic Slofcoe at '©arooiion. 

Within your dear mansion may wayward con 
tention, 

Or Avithering envy ne'er enter : 
May secrecy round be the mystical bound, 

And brotherly love be the centre. 
Edinburgh, 23 August, 1787- 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



181 



LXXX. 

Impromptu. 



[The tumbler on which these verses art- inscribed by the cliamc 
af Burns, found its way to the hands of Sir Walter Scott, and is n 
among the treasures of Abbotsford.J 



You're welcome, Willie Stewart, 
You're welcome, Willie Stewart ; 
There's ne'er a flower that blooms in May, 
That's half sae welcome's thou art. 

Come bumpers high, express your joy, 

The bowl we maun renew i^,; 
The tappit-h-m gae bring her ben, 

To welcome Willie Stewart. 

May foes be Strang, and friends be slack, 

Ilk action may he rue it, 
May woman on him turn her back, 

That wrongs thee, Willie Stewart. 



LXXXT. 

ifJrager for &tmm Armour. 



fTheoi 



irigin of this prayer is curious. In 1785, the maid-servant 
ikeeper at Mauchline, having been caught in what old 
ballad-makers delicately call " the deed of shame," Adam Armour, 
the brother of the poet's bonnieJean, with one or two more of his 
comrades, executed a rustic act of justice upon her, by parading her 
perforce through the \ illage, placed on a rough, unpruned piece of 
wood: an unpleasant ceremony, vulgarly called " Riding the Stanar." 
This was resented by Geordie and Name, the girl's master and mis- 
tress : law was resorted to, and as Adam had to hide till the matter 
was settled, he durst not venture home till late on the Saturday 
nights. In one of these home-comings he met Hums, who laughed 
when he heard the story, and said, " You have need of some one to 
pray for you." " No one can do that better than yourself," was the 
reply, and this humorous intercession was made on the instant, and, 
as it is said, " clan offloof." From Adam Armour I obtained the 
•erses, and when he wrote them out, he told the story in which the 
prayer originated,] 



Lorb, pity me, for I am little, 
Ab eii' of mischief and of mettle, 



That can like ony wabster's shuttle 
Jink there or here, 

Though scarce as lang's a gude kale-whittle, 
I'm unco queer. 

Lord, pity now our waefu' case, 
For Geordie's Jurr we're in disgrace, 
Because we stanged her through the place, 

'Mang hundreds laughin, 
For which we daurna show our face 

Within the clachan. 

And now we're derned in glens and hallows, 
And hunted as was William Wallace, 
By constables, those blackguard fellows, 

A Ad bailies baith, 
O Lord, preserve ns frae the gallows ! 

That cursed death. 

Auld, grim, black-bearded Geordie's sel, 
O shake him owre the mouth o' hell, 
And let him hing and roar and yell, 

Wi' hideous din, 
And if he offers to rebel 

Just heave him in. 

When Death comes in wi' glimmering 1 slink, 
And tips auld drunken Nanse the wink 
Gaur Satan gie her a — e a clink 

Behint his yett, 
And fill her up wi' brimstone drink, 

Red reeking het ! 

There's Jockie and the hav'rel Jenny, 
Some devil seize them in a hurry, 
And waft them in th' infernal wherry 

Straught through the lake, 
And gie their hides a noble curry, 

Wi' oil of aik. 

As for the lass, lascivious body, 

She's had mischief enough already, 

Weel stanged by market, mill, and smidd><i 

She's suffered sair, 
But may she wintle in a widdie, 

If idie wh-re mair 



BONUS AND BALL A D S. 



1. 

P^antisom* Nell. 

Time. — " I am a man unmarried." 

[" This composition," says Burns in his "Common-place Book,." 
" was the first of my performances, and done at an early period in life, 
when my heart glowed with honest, warm simplicity ; unacquainted 
and uncorrupted with the ways of a wicked world. The subject of 
it was a young girl who really deserved all the praises I have be- 
stowed on her."J 

I. 

O once I lov'd a bonnie lass, 

Ay, and I love her still ; 
And whilst that honour warms my breast, 

I'll love my handsome Nell. 

ii. 

As bonnie lasses I hae seen, 

And mony full as braw ; 
But for a modest graceful mien 

The like I never saw. 



A bonnie lass I will confess 

Is pleasant to the e'e, 
But without some better qualities 

She's no a lass for me. 



But Nelly's looks are blithe and sweet, 

And what is best of a', 
Her reputation is complete, 

And fair without a flaw. 



She dresses ay sae clean and neat, 

Both decent and genteel : 
And then there's something in her gait 

Gars ony dress look weeL 

VI. 

A gaudy dress and gentle air 
May slightly touch the heart; 

But it's innocence and modesty 
That polishes the dart, 



'Tis this in Nelly pleases me, 
'Tis this enchants my soul; 

For absolutely in my breast 
She reigns without control. 



II. 

?L\itkU$$ dForttme. 

[The* lines, as Burns informs us, were written to a tune of his 
own composing, consisting of three parts, and the words were the 
schoof the air.] 

O raging fortune's withering blast 

Has laid my leaf full low, O ! 
O raging fortune's withering blast 

Has laid my leaf full low, O ! 
My stem was fair, my bud was green, 

My blossom sweet did blow, O ; 
The dew fell fresh, the sun rose mild, 

And made my branches grow, 0. 
But luckless fortune's northern storms 

Laid a' my blossoms low, O ; 
But luckless fortune's northern storms 

Laid a' my blossoms low, 0. 



III. 

1 BuanVti 3t lag. 



•"These melancholy verses were written when the port was some 
seventeen years old : his early days were typical of his latter. | 



I dream'd I lay where flowers were springing 

Gaily in the sunny beam ; 
List'ning to the wild birds singing, 

By a falling crystal stream: 



OF ROBERT BURN a. 



133 



.Straight the sky grew black and daring- ; 

Thro' the woods the whirlwinds rave; 
Trees with aged arms were warring, 

O'er the swelling drumlie wave. 



Such was my life's deceitful morning, 

Such the pleasure I enjoy'd : 
But lang or noon, loud tempests storming, 

A 7 my flowery bliss destroy'd. 
Tho' fickle fortune has deceiv'd me, 

She promis'd fair, and perform'd but ill ; 
Of mony a joy and hope bereav'd me, 

I bear a heart shall support me still. 



But, Tibbie, lass, tak my advice. 
Your daddie's gear maks you sae nieej 
The deil a ane wad spier your price. 
Were ye as poor as I. 



There lives a lass in yonder park, 
I would nae gie her in her sark. 
For thee, wi' a' thy thousan' mark ; 
Ye need na look sae high. 



IV. 

Tibbie, I J)ae sseen H)c Dag. 

Tune. — u InvercalcTs Reel." 



[The Tibbie who " spak na, but gaed by like stoure," was, it is 
said, the daughter of a man who was laird of three acres of peat- 
. moss, and thought it became her to put on airs in consequence.] 



O Tibbie, I hae seen the day, 
Ye wad na been sae shy ; 

For lack o' gear ye lightly me, 
But, trowth, I care na by. 



Ykstkeen I met you on the moor, 
Ye spak na, but gaed by like stoure ; 
Ye geek at me because I'm poor, 
But fieri t a hair care I. 



I doubt na, lass, but ye may think, 
Because ye hae the name o' clink, 
That ye can please me at a wink, 
Whene'er ye like to try. 



But sorrow tak him that's sae mean, 
Altho' his pouch o' coin were clean, 
Wha follows ony saucy quean, 
That looks sae proud and high. 



Altho' a lad were e'er sae smart, 
If that he want the yellow dirt, 
Ye'll cast your head anither airt, 
And answer him fu' dry. 



But if he hae the name o' gear, 
Ye'll fasten to him like a brier. 
Tho' hardly he, for sense or lear. 
Be better than the kye. 



i&£ ^Father foas a farmer. 

Tune.—" The Weaver and his Shuttle, O " 



\" The following song," says the poet, « is a wild rhapsodv, mis* 
rably d< fit-lent in versification, but as the sentiments are the genuine 
fedings ot my heart, for that reason I have a particular pleasure in 
conning it over"] 



My father was a farmer 

Upon the Carrick border, 0, 
And carefully he bred me 

In decency and order, O ; 
He bade me act a manly part, 

Though I had ne'er a farthing, Or 
For without an honest manly heart, 

No man was wortn regarding, O. 



Then out into the world 

My course I did determine, ; 
Tho' to be rich was not my wish, 

Yet to be great was charming, O : 
My talents they were not the worst, 

Nor yet my education, O ; 
Resolv'd was I, at least to try, 

To mend my situation, O. 



In many a way, and vain essay, 

I courted fortune's favour, O; 
Some cause unseen still stept between.., 

To frustrate each endeavour, O : 
Sometimes by foes I was o'erpower'd 

Sometimes by friends forsaken, O, 
And when my hope was at the top, 

I still was worst mistaken, O. 



Then sore harass'd, and tir'd at last, 
With fortune's vain delusion, O, 

I dropt my schemes, like idle dreams, 
And came to this conclusion, O- 

M M 



184 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



The past was bad, and the future hid ; 

Its good or ill untried, O ; 
But the present hour, was in my pow'r, 

And so I would enjoy it, O. 
v. 
No help, nor hope, nor view had I, 

Nor person to befriend me, ; 
So I must toil, and sweat and broil, 

And labour to sustain me, : 
To plough and sow, to reap and mow, 

My father bred me early, : 
For one, lie said, to labour bred, 

Was a match for fortune fairly, O. 

"i. 

Thus all obscure, unknown, and poo.', 

Thro' life I'm doomM to wander, v), 
Till down my weary bones I lay, 

In everlasting slumber, 6. 
No view nor care, but shun whate'er 

Might breed me pain or sorrow, : 
I live to-day as well's I may, 

Regardless of to-morrow, 0. 

VII. 

But cheerful still, I am as well, 

As a monarch in a palace, 0, 
Tho' Fortune's frown still hunts me down, 

With all her wonted malice, : 
I make indeed my daily bread, 

But ne'er can make it farther, O ; 
But, as daily bread is all I need, 

I do not much regard her, O. 
viii. 
When sometimes by my labour 

I earn a little money, O, 
Some unforeseen misfortune 

Comes gen'rally upon me, O : 
Mischance, mistake, or by neglect, 

Or my goodnatur'd folly, O ; 
But come what will, I've sworn it still, 

I'll ne'er be melancholy, O. 

IX. 

All you who follow wealth and power 

With unremitting ardour, O, 
The more in this you look for bliss, 

You leave your view thf fartier, O : 
Had you the wealth Potosi boasts, 

Or nations to adore you, O, 
A cheerful honest-hearted clown 

I will prefer before you, O. 



VI 

;$ofm 33adcgcow : 

A BALLAD. 

Itlomj-jsed on the plan of an old song, of which David Laing has 
ffiven an authentic version in his very curious volume of Metrical 
Tales. J 

I. 

There were three kings into the east. 
Three kings both sjreat and high ; 



An' they ha'e sworn a so^inn oaw 
John Barleycorn should die. 






They took a plough and plough'd him dcrsra, 

Put clods upon his head ; 
And they ha'e sworn a solemn oath 

John Barleycorn was dead. 



But the cheerful spring came kindly ( 
And show'rs began to fall ; 

John Barleycorn got up again, 
And sore surpr's'd them all. 



The sultry suns of summer came, 
And he grew thick and strong; 

His head weel arm'd wi' pointed spears 
That uo one should him wrong. 



The sober autumn enter'd mild, 
When he grew wan and pale ; 

His bending joints and drooping head 
Show'd he began to fail. 



His colour sicken'd more and more, 

He faded into age ; 
And then his enemies began 

To shew their deadly rage. 



They've ta'en a weapon, long and sharp, 

And cut him by the knee ; 
Then ty'd him fast upon a cart, 

Like a rogue for forgerie. 



They laid him down upon his back, 
And cudgell'd him full sore ; 

They hung him up before the storm. 
And turn'd him o'er and o'er. 



They filled up a darksome pit 
With water to the brim ; 

They heaved in John Barleycorn, 
There let him sink or swim. 



They laid him out upon the door, 
To work him farther woe ; 

And still, as signs of life appear' d, 
They toss'd him to and fro. 



They wasted o'er a scorching flame 

The marrow of his bones ; 
But a miller us'd him worst of all, 

For he crush'd him between two s*ones, 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



J35 



And they lia'e ta'en his very heart's blood, 
And drank it round and round ; 

\nd still the more and more they drank, 
Their joy did more abound. 

XIII. 

John Barleycorn was a hero bold, 

Of noble enterprise ; 
For if you do but taste his blood, 

'Twill make your courage rise. 



'Twill make a man forget his woe ; 

"Twill heighten all his joy : 
Twill make tne widow's heart to sing 

Tho' the tear were in her eye. 



Then let us toast John Barleycorn, 
Each man a glass in hand ; 

And may his great posterity 
Ne'er fail in old Scotland ! 



VII. 

Tune. — " Corn Rigs are bonnie.'*' 



i t wc young women of the west, Anne Ronald and Anne BUh\ 
haw each, oy the district traditions, been claimed as tne heroine of 
this early song.] 



It was upon a Lammas night, 

When corn rigs are bonnie, 
Beneath the moon's unclouded light, 

I held awa to Annie : 
The time flew by wi' tentless'heed, 

'Till 'tween the late and early, 
Wi' sma' persuasion she agreed, 

To see me thro' the barley. 



The sky was blue, the wind was still, 

The moon was shining clearly; 
I set her down wi' right good will, 

Amang the rigs o' barley : 
I ken't her heart was a' my ain ; 

I lov'd her most sincerely; 
I kiss'd her owre and owre again, 

Amang the rigs o' barley. 



I lock'd her in my fond embrace ! 

Her heart was beating rarely : 
My blessings on that happy place, 

Amang the rigs o' barley ! 
But by the moon and stars so bright, 

That shone that hour so clearly ! 
She ay shall bless that happy night, 

Amang the rigs o' barley 1 



I hae been blithe wi' comiadcs dear; 

I hae been merry drinkin' ; 
I hae been joyfu' gath'rin' gear; 

I hae been happy thinkin' : 
But a' the pleasures e'er I saw, 

Tho' tbree times doubl'd fairly, 
That happy night wa* worth them a', 

Amang the rigs o' barley. 



CHORUS. 



Corn rigs, an' barley rigs, 
An' corn rigs are bonnie: 

I'll ne'er forget that happy night, 
Amang the rigs wi' Annie. 



VIII. 

Tune.—" Galla- Water." 



[" My Montgomery's Peggy," says Burns, " was my deity for ax 
or eis lit months : she had been bred in a style of life ratf tv elegan ■•■ : 
it enst me some heart-aches to get rid of the af.'air." *j ie youi ^ 
lady listened to the eloquence of the poet, poured out in many an i «- 
terviiw, and then quietly told him that she stood unalterably engag^ 
». <u:otiicr.l 



Altho' my bed were in yon muir 
Amang the heather, in my plaidie, 

Yet happy, happy would I be, 

Had I my dear Montgomery's Peggy. 



When o'er the hill beat surly storms, 
And winter nights were dark and rainy j 

I'd seek some dell, and in my arms 
I'd shelter dear Montgomery's Peggy. 



Were I a baron proud and high, 

And horse and servants waiting ready, 

Then a' 'twad gie o' joy to me, 

The sharin't with Montgomery's Peggy. 



IX. 

Tune. — " I had a Horse, I hadnae Mair." 

[The Mauchline lady who won the poet's heart was Jean Armour . 
she loved to relate how the bard made her acquaintance: his dog ran 
a ross some linen webs which she was bleaching anions" Mauchlint 
go wans, and he apologized so handsomely that she took ar *-,er Look 
at him. To this interview the world owes some of our most inr- ° 
sinned strains.] 

When first I came to Stewart Kyle. 

My mind it was nae steady ; 
Where'er I gaed, where'er I rade, 

A mistress still I had ay : 



13(> 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



But when I came roun' by Mauchline town, 

Not dreadin' any body, 
My heart was caught before I thought, 

And by a Mauchline lady. 



XI. 



[The heroine of this song is said to have be&u " Montgomery's 



Tune. — " / had a Horse, I had nae MairS 



Tune. 



^\)t ^fgfjlanti teste. 

-" The Deuks dang o'er my Daddy ! 



f" The Highland Lassie" was Mary Campbell, whose too early 
death the poet sung in strains that will endure while the language 
lasts. " She was," says Burns, " a warm-hearted, charming young 
creature as ever blessed a man with generous love."] 



Nae gentle dames, tho' e'er sae fair, 
Shall ever be my muse's care : 
Their titles a' are empty show ; 
Gie me my Highland lassie, O. 

Within the glen sae bushy, O, 
Aboon the plains sae rushy, O, 
I set me down wi' right good will, 
To sing my Highland lassie, 0. 



Oh, were yon hills and vallies mine, 
Yon palace and yon gardens fine, 
The world then the love should know 
I bear my Highland lassie, O. 



But fickle fortune frowns on me, 
And I maun cross the raging sea ; 
But while my crimson currents flow, 
I'll love my Highland lassie, O. 



Altho' thro' foreign climes I range, 
I know her heart will never change, 
For her bosom burns with honour's glo 
My faithful Highland lassie, 0. 



For her I'll dare the billows' roar, 
For her 111 trace a distant shore, 
That Indian wealth may lustre throw 
Around my Highland lassie, 0. 



She has my heart, she has my hand, 
By sacred truth and honour's band ! 
'Till the mortal stroke shall lay me low, 
I'm thine, my Highland lassie, 0. 

Farewell the glen sae bushy, ! 

Farewell the plain sae rushy, ! 

To other lands I now must go, 

To sing my Highland lassie, 



Now westlin winds and slaughtering guns 

Bring autumn's pleasant weather ; 
The moorcock springs, on whirring wings, 

Amang the blooming heather : 
Now waving grain, wide o'er the plain, 

Delights the weary farmer ; 
And the moon shines bright, when I rove at n 

To muse upon my charmer. 



The partridge loves the fruitful fells ; 

The plover loves the mountains ; 
The woodcock haunts the lonely dells ; 

The soaring hern the fountains : 
Thro' lofty groves the cushat roves 

The path of man to shun it ; 
The hazel bush o'erhangs the thrush, 

The spreading thorn the linnet. 



Thus ev'ry kind their pleasure find, 

The savage and the tender ; 
Some social join, and leagues combine ; 

Some solitary wander: 
Avaunt, away ! the cruel sway, 

Tyrannic man's dominion ; 
The sportsman's joy, the murd'ring cry, 

The flutt'ring, gory pinion. 



But Peggy, dear, the ev'ning's clear, 

Thick flies the skimming swallow ; 
The sky is blue, the fields in view, 

All fading-green and yellow : 
Come, let us stray our gladsome way, 

And view the charms of nature ; 
The rustling corn, the fruited thorn, 

And every happy creature. 



We'll gently walk, and sweetly talk. 

Till the silent moon shine clearly ; 
I'll grasp thy waist, and, fondly prcst. 

Swear how I love thee dearly : 
Not vernal show'rs to budding flowV*, 

Not autumn to the farmer, 
So dear can be as thou to me, 

My fair, my lovely charmer ! 









1 







Bin Peggy dear the Evening's clea 
Thick flies Lhe skimming s wall o 

Tin Skj fi blue, the Relds in vi, 
All fading & a and yellow. 



O? ROBFRT BURNS 



137 



Xll 

&Ijc tantm IDog t|)e 3Eal)Me o't. 

Tune. — " East nook o y Fife. 



[The heroine of this humorous ditty was the mother cf " Sonsie, 
srrlrking, dear-bought Bess," a person whom the poet regarded, as 
he says, both for her form and her grace.^ 



wha my babie-clouts will buy ? 
wha will tent me when I cry ? 
Wha will kiss me where I lie ? — 
The rantin dog the daddie o't. 



O wha will own he did the fau't ? 
wha will buy the groanin' maut ? 
O wha will tell me how to ca't ? — 
The rantin dog the daddie o't. 



When I mount the creepie chair, 
Wha will sit beside me there ? 
Gie me Rob, I'll seek nae mair, 
The rantin dog the daddie o'fc. 



Wha will crack to me my lane ? 
Wha will mak me fidgin fain ? 
Wha will kiss me o'er again ? — 
The rantin dog the daddie o't. 



XIII. 
$£g P*eart has ante. 

Tune. — " To the Weaver j gin y 



I" The chorus of this song," says Burns, in his note to the Museum, 
** is old, the rest is mine." The " bonnie, westlin weaver lad" is said 
to have been one of the rivals of the poet in the affections of a wesflau 
ladyj 



My heart was ance as blythe and free 

As simmer days were lang, 

But a bonnie, westlin weaver lad 

Has gart me change my sang. 

To the weavers gin ye go, fair maids, 

To the weavers gin ye go ; 
I rede you right gang ne'er at night, 
To the weavers gin ye go. 



My mither sent me to the town v 
To warp a plaiden wab ; 

But the weary, weary warpin o't 
Has gart me sigh and sab. 



A bonnie westlin weaver lad, 
Sat working at his loom ; 

He took my heart as wi' a net, 
In every knot and thrum. 



I sat beside my warpin-wheei, 
And ay I ca'd it roun' ; 

But every shot and every knock. 
My heart it gae a stoun. 



The moon was sinking in the west 
Wi' visage pale and wan, 

As my bonnie westlin weaver lad 
Convoy'd me thro' the glen. 



But what was said, or what was done, 

Shame fa' me gin I tell ; 
But, oh ! I fear the kintra soon 
Will ken as weel's mysel. 

To the weavers gin ye go, fair maids, 

To the weavers gin ye go ; 
I rede you right gang ne'er at nigh!., 
To the. weavers gin ye go. 



XIV 
Nannie. 

Tune. — " My Nannie, O." 



[Agnes Fleming, servant at Calcothiil, inspired this fine song < siie 
died at an advanced age, and was more remarkable for the beauty ot 
her form than face. When questioned about the love of Burns, she 
smiled and said, " Aye, atweel he made a great wark about me." J 



Behind yon hills where Lugar flows, 
'Mang moors an' mosses many, Q, 

The wintry sun the day has clos'd, 
And I'll awa to Nannie, (X 



The westlin wind blaws loud an' sfitll ? 

The night's baith mirk and rainy, ; 
But I'll get my plaid, an' out I'll steal, 

An' owre the hills to Nannie, O. 



138 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



My Nannie's charming, sweet, an' young; 

Nae artfu' wiles to win ye, : 
May ill befa' the flattering tongue 

That wad beguile my Nannie, O. 



Her face is fair, her heart is true, 
As spotless as she's bonnie, O : 

The op : ning gowan, wat wi' dew, 
Nae purer is than Nannie, 0. 



A country lad is my degree, 
An' few there be that ken me, O ; 

But what care I how few they be ? 
I'm welcome ay to Nannie, 0. 



My riches a's my penny-fee, 
An' I maun guide it cannie, ; 

But warFs gear ne'er troubles me, 
My thoughts are a' my Nannie, 0. 



Our auld guidman delights to view 
His sheep an' kye thrive bonnie, ; 

But I'm as blythe that bauds his pleugh, 
An' has nae care but Nannie, 0. 



Come weel, come woe, I care na by, 
I'll tak what Heav'n wiD sen ; me, : 

Nae ither care in life have I, 
But live, an' love my Nannie, O. 



XV 

& d?*agment 

Tune — " John Anderson my Jo" 



fThis verse, written early, and probably intended for the starting 
Ter»e of a song, was found among the papers of the poet. J 



One night as I did wander, 

When corn begins to shoot, 
I sat me down to ponder, 

Upon an auld tree root : 
Auld Ayr ran by before me, 

And bicker'd to the seas ; 
A cushat crooded o'er me, 

That echoed thro' the braes. 



XYL 

*3onnte JNggjo Alison. 

Tune. — " Braes d' Balquhidder.' 



[On those whom Burns loved he poured out songs without limit 
Peggy Alison is said, by a western tradition, to be Monqjoroury's 
Feggy, but this seems doubtful.] 



I'll kiss thee yet, yet, 

An' I'll kiss thee o'er again ,- 
An' I'll kiss thee yet, yet, 

My bonnie Peggy Alison f 



Ilk care and fear, when thou art near^ 

I ever mair defy them, ; 
Young kings upon their hansel throne 

Are no sae blest as I am, O ! 



When in my arms, wi' a' thy charms, 
I clasp my countless treasure, O, * 

I seek nae mair o' Heaven to share 
Than sic a moment' s pleasure, O I 



And by thy een, sae bonnie blue, 

I swear I'm thine for ever, ! — 
And on thy lips I seal my vow, 
And break it shall I never, ! 
I'll kiss thee yet, yet, 

An' I'll kiss thee o'er again i 
An' I'll kiss thee yet, yet, 
My bonnie Peggy Alison ' 



XVII 

®ljm'$ nought hut ©ate. 

Tune. — " Green grow the Rashes." 



["Man was made when nature was but an apprentice; 6iu 
woman is the last and most perfect work of nature," says an old 
writer, in a rare old book : a passage which expresses thesentiment 
of Burns ; yet it is all but certain that the Ploughman Bard was ur» • 
acquainted with " Cupid's Whirlygie," where these words are to tx 
found.] 



Green grow the rashes, ! 

Green grow the rashes, O ! 
The sweetest hours that e'er I spend 

Are spent amang the lasses, O, 



OF ROBERT BURNS 



vm 



There's nought but care on ev'ry han', 
In every hour that passes, O : 

What signifies the life o' man, 
An' 'twere na for the lasses, O. 



The warly race may riches chase, 
An' riches still may fly them, O ; 

An' tho' at last they catch them fast, 
Their hearts can ne'er enjoy them, O. 



But gie me a canny hour at e'en, 
My arms about my dearie, O ; 

An' warly cares, an' warly men, 
May a' gae tapsalteerie, O. 



For you sae douce, ye sneer at this, 
Ye're nought but senseless asses, : 

The wisest man the warl' e'er saw, 
He dearly lov'd the lasses, O. 



Auld Nature swears the lovely dears 

Her noblest work she classes, : 
Her 'prentice han' she try'd on man, 
An' then she made the lasses, O. 
Green grow the rashes, O ! 

Green grow the rashes, O ! 
The sweetest hours that e'er I spend 
Are spent amang the lasses, O. 



XVIII. 

Tune.—" The Northern Lass." 



[The lady on whom this passionate verse was written was Jean 
Armour.] 



Though cruel fate should bid us part, 

Far as the pole and line, 
Her dear idea round my heart, 

Should tenderly entwine. 
Though mountains rise, and deserts howl, 

And oceans roar between ; 
Yet, dearer than my deathless soul, 

I still would love my Jean. 



XIX. 

lUlnn 

Tune. — ** Damtie Davie ' 



[Stothard painted a ciever little picture from this characteristic 
ditty : the cannie wife, it was evident, saw in Robin's palm somt* 
thing which tickled her, and a curious intelligence sparkled in ttu. 
eyes of her gossips.] 



There was a lad was born in Kyle, 
But whatna day o' whatna style 
I doubt it's hardly worth the while 
To be sae nice wi' Robin. 
Robin was a rovin' boy, 

Rantin' rovin,' rantin' ravin.' ; 
Robin was a rovin' boy, 
Rantin 1 rovin' Robin ! 



Our monarch's hindmost year butane 
Was five-and-twenty days begun, 
'Twas then a blast o' Janwar win' 
Blew hansel in on Robin. 



The gossip keekit in his loof, 
Quo' scho wha lives will see the proof, 
This waly boy will be nae coof, 
I think we'll ca' him Robin. 



He'll hae misfortunes great and sma', 
But ay a heart aboon them a'; 
He'll be a credit to us a', 
We'll a' be proud o' Robin. 



But sure as three times three male nine, 
I see by ilka score and line, 
This chap will dearly like oiir kin'. 
So leeze me on thee, Robin. 



Guid faith, quo' scho, I doubt you gar 
The bonnie lasses lie aspar, 
But twenty fauts ye may hae wain, 
So blessin's on thee, Robin ! 
Robin was a rovin' boy, 

Rantin' rovin', rantm' rovin' ,• 
Robin was a rovin' boy, 
Rantin' rovin' Robin I 



140 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



XX. 

|8er dFlofoing Sotfc*. 

Tune. — (unknown.) 



vfcir day— it is tradition that speaks— Bums had his foot in the 
R&rrup to return from Ayr to Mauchline, when a young lady of 
great beauty rode up to the inn, and ordered refreshments for her ser- 
vants : he made these lines at the moment, to keep, he said, so much 
Deauty in his memory.] 



Her flowing locks, the raven's wing, 
Adown her neck and bosom hing; 
How sweet unto that breast to cling, 

And round that neck entwine her ! 
Her lips are roses wat wi' dew, 
O, what a feast her bonnie mou' ! 
Her cheeks a mair celestial hue, 

A crimson still diviner. 



XXI. 

Tune. — " Mauchline Bells." 



fWho these Mauchline belles 



e the tard in other verse informs 



" Miss Miller is fine, Miss Markland's divine, 

Miss Smith she has wit, and Miss Betty is braxv; 
There's beauty and fortune to get with Miss Morton, 
But Armour's the jewel for me o' them a'."] 



leave novels, ye Mauchline belles, 
Ye're safer at your spinning-wheel ; 

Such witching books arc baited hooks 
For rakish rooks, like Rob Mossgiel. 



Your fine Tom Jones and Grandisons, 
They make your youthful fancies reel ; 

They heat your brains, and fire your veins, 
And then you're prey for Rob Mossgiel. 



Beware a tongue that's smoothly hung, 
A heart that warmly seems to feel ; 

That feeling heart but acts a part — 
; Tis rakish art in Rob Mossgiel. 



The frank address, the soft caress, 

Are worse than poisoned darts of steel ; 

The frank address and politess 
Are all finesse in Rob Mossgiel. 



Tune- 



XXIT. 

c Last time I cam o'er the Muir." 



[In these verses Burns, it is said, bade farewell to one on whom he 
had, according to his outi account, wasted eight months of court- 
ship. We hear no more of Montgomery's Peggy .j 



Young Peggy blooms our bonniest lass, 

Her blush is like the morning, 
The rosy dawn, the springing grass, 

With early gems adorning % 
Her eyes outshine the radiant beams 

That gild the passing shower, 
And glitter o'er the crystal streams, 

And cheer each fresh'ning flower. 



Her lips, more than the cherries bright, 

A richer dye has graced them ; 
They charm th' admiring gazer's sight, 

And sweetly tempt to taste them : 
H er smile is, as the evening, mild, 

When feather'd tribes are courting, 
And little lambkins wanton wild, 

In playful bands disporting. 



Were fortune lovely Peggy's foe, 

Such sweetness would relent her, 
As blooming spring unbends the brow 

Of surly, savage winter. 
Detraction's eye no aim can gain, 

Her winning powers to lessen ; 
And fretful envy grins in vain 

The poison'd tooth to fasten. 



Ye powers of honour, love, and truth, 

From every ill defend her ; 
Inspire the highly-favour'd youth, 

The destinies intend her : 
Still fan the sweet connubial flame 

Responsive in each bosom, 
And bless the dear parental name 

With many a filial blossom. 



XXIII. 
Z\)t one fot all ©are. 

Tune. — "Prepare, my dear Brethren, to the Tavern 
let's fly." 



fTarbolton Lodge, of which the poet was a member, was noted for 
its socialities. Masonic lyrics are all of a dark and mystic order ; and 
those of Burns are scarcely an exception.] 



No churchman am I for to rail and to write 
No statesman nor soldier to plot or to fight. 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



14! 



No sly man of business contriving to snare — 
For a big-bellied bottle's the whole of my care. 



The peer I don't envy, I give him his bow ; 

I scorn not the peasant, tho' ever so low ; 

But a club of good fellows, like those that are 

here, 
And a bottle like this, are my glory and care. 



Here passes the squire on his brother — his 

horse ; 
There centum per centum, the cit with his 

purse ; 
But see you The Crown, how it waves in the air ! 
There a big-bellied bottle still eases my care. 



The wife of my bosom, alas ! she did die ; 
For sweet consolation to church I did fly ; 
I found that old Solomon proved it fair, 
That a big-beUied bottle's a cure for all care. 



I once was persuaded a venture to make ; 

A letter inform'd me that all was to wreck ;— 

But the pursy old landlord just waddled up 

stairs, 
With a glorious bottle that ended my cares. 



" Life's cares they are comforts," * — a maxim 

laid down 
By the bard, what d'ye call him, that wore the 

black gown ; 
And faith I agree with th' old prig to a hair ; 
For a big-bellied bottle's aheav'n of care 

VII. 
ADDED IN A MASON LODGE. 

Then fill up a bumper and make it o'erflow, 
The honours masonic prepare for to throw ; 
May every true brother of the compass and 

Em are 
Have a big-bellied bottle when harass' d with 
care ! 



XXIV. 

mka. 



Tune, — " GUderoy." 



[My late excellent friend, John Gait, informed me that the Eliza 
of this song was his relative, and that her name was Elizabeth Bar- 
bour.] 



From thee, Eliza, I must go, 
__ And from my native shore ; 
Mne cruel Fates between us throw 
A boundless ocean s roar : 

1 Young's Night Thougncs. 



But boundless oceans roaring wide, . 

Between my love and me, 
They never, never can divide 

My heart and soul from thee ! 



Farewell, farewell, Eliza dear, 

The maid that I adore ! 
A boding voice is in mine ear, 

We part to meet no more ! 
The latest throb that leaves my heart, 

While death stands victor by, 
That throb, Eliza, is thy part, 

And thine that latest sigh I 



XXV 



Zty &*W of 0lo IKHUe. 

Tune. — " Shawnboy" 



["This song, wrcreby Mr. Burns, was sung by him in thj £ii 
marnock-Kilwina ng Lodge, in 1786, and given by him tc Mr. 
Parker, who was Master of the Lodge." These interesting wonis are 
on the original, ic the poet's hand-writing, in the possession of Mr. 
Gabriel Neil, of Glasgow.] 



Ye sons of old Killie, assembled by Willie, 

To follow the noble vocation ; 
Your thrifty old mother has scarce such another 

To sit in that honoured station. 
I've little to say, but only to pray, 

As praying's the ton of your fashion ; 
A prayer from the muse you well may ex- 
cuse, 

'Tis seldom her favourite passion. 



Ye powers who preside o'er the wind and the 
tide, 

Who marked each element's border; 
Who formed this frame with beneficent aim, 

Whose sovereign statute is order ; 
Within this dear mansion, may wayward con- 
tention 

Or withered envy ne'er enter ; 
May secresy round be the mystical bound, 

And brotherly love be the centra 






142 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



XXVI. 

Tune. — " Johnny's grey Breeks." 



fOf the lady who inspired this song no one has given any account; 
it first appeared in the second edition of the poet's works, and as the 
chorus was written by an Edinburgh gentleman, it has been surmised 
that the song was a matter of friendship rather than of the heart.] 



Again rejoicing nature sees 

Her robe assume its vernal hues, 
Her leafy locks wave in the breeze, 
All freshly steep'd in morning dews. 
And maun I still on Menie doat, 

And bear the scorn that's in her e'e ? 
For it's jet, jet black, an' it's like a hawk, 
An' it winna let a body be. 



In vain to me the cowslips blaw, 
In vain to me the vi'lets spring ; 

Jn vain to me, in glen or shaw, 
The mavis and the lintwhite sing. 



The merry ploughboy cheers his team, 
Wi' joy the tentie seedsman stalks ; 

But life to rue's a weary dream, 
A dream of ane that never wauks. 



The wanton coot the water skims, 
Amang the reeds the ducklings cry, 

The stately swan majestic swims, 
And every thing is blest but I. 



The sheep-herd steeks his faulding slap, 
And owre the moorland whistles shrill; 

Wi' wild, unequal, wand'ring step, 
I meet him on the dewy hill. 



And when the lark, 'tween light and dark, 
Blythe waukens by the daisy's side, 

And mounts and sings on flittering wings, 
A woe-worn ghaist I hameward glide. 



Come, Winter, with thine angry howl, 

And raging bend the naked tree : 
Thy gloom will sooth my cheerless soul, 
When nature all is sad like me ! 

And maun I still on Menie doat, 

And bear the scorn that's in her e'e ? 
For it's jet, jet black, an' it's like a hawk, 
An' it winna let a body be. 



XXVII. 

€])? dfaretocU 

TO THE 

BRETHREN OF ST. JAMES'S LODGE, 

TARBOLTON. 
Tune — " Good-night, and Joy be wi' you a'" 



[Burns, it is said, sung this song in the St. James's Lodge of Tar- 
bolton, when his chest was on the way to Greenock : men are ye_- 
living who had the honour of hearing him — the concluding verse af- 
fected the whole lodge.] 



Adieu ! a heart-warm, fond adieu ! 

Dear brother's of the mystic tyei 
Ye favour' d, ye enlightened few, 

Companions of my social joy ! 
Tho' I to foreign lands must hie, 

Pursuing Fortune's slidd'ry ba', 
With melting heart, and brimful eye, 

I'll mind you still, tho' far awa'. 



Oft have I met your social band 3 

And spent the cheerful, festive night; 
Oft, honor' d with supreme command, 

Presided o'er the sons of light : 
And by that hieroglyphic bright, 

Which none but craftsmen ever saw 1 
Strong mem'ry on my heart shall write 

Those happy scenes when far awa' 



May freedom, harmony, and love 

Unite you in the grand design, 
Beneath th' Omniscient Eye above, 

The glorious Architect divine ! 
That you may keep th' unerring line, 

Still rising hy the plummet's law, 
Till order bright completely shine, 

Shall be my pray'r when far awa'. 



And you farewell ! whose merits claim, 

Justly, that highest badge to wear ! 
Ileav'n bless your honor' d, noble name, 

To masonry and Scotia dear ! 
A last request permit me here, 

When yearly ye assemble a', 
One round — I ask it with a tear, 

To him, the Bard that's far awa/. 



OF KOBKRT BURNS. 



as 



XXVIII 

<$n <£e&mocfe 23anfe£. 

Tune. — " If he he a Butcher neat and trim" 



[There are many variations of this song, which was first printed by 
Crwmelt from the oral communication of a Glasgow lady, on whose 
cliaruia the poet, in early life, composed it.] 



Ok Cessnock banks a lassie dwells ; 

Could I describe her shape and mien ; 
Our lasses a' she far excels, 

An' she has twa sparkling roguish een. 



She's sweeter than the morning dawn 
When rising Phoebus first is seen, 

And dew-drops twinkle o'er the lawn ; 
An' she has twa sparkling roguish een. 



She's stately like yon youthful ash, 
That grows the cowslip braes between, 

And drinks the stream with vigour fresh ; 
An' she has twa sparkling roguish een. 



She's spotless lilce the flow'ring thorn, 

With flow'rs so white and leaves so green, 

When purest in the dewy morn ; 
An' she has twa sparkling roguish een. 



Her looks are like the vernal May, 
When evening Phcebus shines serene, 

While birds rejoice on every spray — 
An' she has twa sparkling roguish een. 



Her hair is like the curling mist 

That climbs the mountain-sides at e'en, 

When flow'r-reviving rains are past ; 
An' she has twa sparkling roguish een. 



Her forehead's like the show'ry bow, 
When gleaming sunbeams intervene, 

A.nd gild the distant mountain's brow ; 
An' she has twa sparkling roguish een. 



Her cheeks are like yon crimson gem, 
The pride of all the flowery scene, 

Just opening on its thorny stem ; 

An' she has twa sparkling roguish een. 



Her teeth are like the nightly snow 
When pale the morning rises keen. 

While hid the murmuring streamlets flow ; 
An' she has twa sparkling roguish een. 



Her lips are like yon cherries ripe, 

That sunny walls from Boreas screen — 

They tempt the taste and charm the sight? 
An' she has twa sparkling roguish een. 



Her teeth are like a flock of sheep, 
With fleeces newly waslien clean, 

That slowly mount the rising steep ; 
An' she has twa glancin' roguish een. 



Her breath is like the fragrant breeze 
That gently stirs the blossom'd bean, 

When Phoebus sinks behind the seas ; 
An' she has twa sparkling roguish een. 

XIII. 

Her voice is like the ev'ning thrush 
That sings on Cessnock banks unseen, 

While his mate sits nestling in the bush ; 
An' she has twa sparkling roguish een. 



But it's not her air, her form, her face, 
Tho' matching beauty's fabled queen, 

'Tis the mind that shines in ev'ry grace, 
An' chiefly in her roguish een. 



XXIX. 



Tune. — i( Blue Bonnets,* 



[In the original manuscript Burns calls this song " A Prayer I 
Mary ;" his Highland Mary is supposed to be the inspirer.l 



Powers celestial ! whose protection 

Ever guards the virtuous fair, 
While in distant climes I wander, 

Let my Mary be your care : 
Let her form sae fair and faultless, 

Fair and faultless as your own, 
Let my Mary's kindred spirit 

Draw your choicest influence dovm. 



144 



THE rOETICAL JVORKS 



Make the gales you waft around her 

Soft and peaceful as her breast ; 
Breathing in the breeze that fans her 

Sooth her bosom into rest : 
Guardian angels ! O protect her, 

When in distant lands I roam ; 
To realms unknown while fate exiles me, 

Make her bosom still my home. 



Tune. 



XXX. 

§t Sags of 2SaUod)mgle. 

-" Miss Forbes' Farewell to Banff." 






[Miss Alexander, of Ballochmyle, as the poet tells her in a letter, 
dated November, 1786, inspired this popular song. He chanced to 
meet her in one of his favourite walks on the banks of the Ayr, 
a.id the fine scene and the lovely lady set the muse to work. Miss 
Alexander, perhaps unaccustomed te this forward wooing of the 
muse, allowed the offering to remain unnoticed for a time : it is now 
in a costly frame, and hung in her chamber— as it deserves to be.] 



; Twas even — the dewy fields were green, 

On every blade the pearls hang, 
The zephyr wanton'd round the bean, 

And bore its fragrant sweets alang : 
In ev'ry glen the mavis sang, 

All nature listening seem'd the while, 
Except where greenwood echoes rang, 

Amang the braes o' Ballochmyle. 



With careless step I onward stray' d, 

My heart rejoic'd in nature's joy, 
When musing in a lonely glade, 

A maiden fair I chanc'd to spy ; 
Her look was like the morning's eye. 

Her air like nature's vernal smile, 
Perfection whisper'd, passing by, 

Behold the lass o' Ballochmyle ! 



Fair is the morn in flow'ry May, 

And sweet is night in autumn mild ; 
When roving thro' the garden gay, 

Or wand'ring in the lonely wild : 
But woman, nature's darling child ! 

There all her charms she does compile ; 
Even there her other works are foil'd 

By the bonnie lass o' Ballochmyle. 



O, had she been a country maid, 
And I the happy country swain, 

Tho' shelter' d in the lowest shed 
That ever rose on Scotland's plain, 



Thro' weary winter's wind and rain, 
With joy, with rapture, I would toil » 

And nightly to my bosom strain 
The bonnie lass o' Ballochmyle. 



Then pride might climb the slipp'ry steep 

Where fame and honours lofty shine : 
And thirst of gold might tempt the deep, 

Or downward seek the Indian mine ; 
Give me the cot below the pine, 

To tend the flocks, or till the soil, 
And ev'ry day have joys divine 

With the bonnie lass o' Ballochmyle. 



XXXI. 

%$t (Sloomg Ntgl)t. 

Tune. — " JRoslin Castle" 



[••' I had taken," says Burns, " the last farewell of my friend?, my 
cLest was on the road to Greenock, and [ had composed the last sosig 
1 sLould ever measure in Caledonia — 



■ The gloomy night is gathering fast' " 



The gloomy night is gath'ring fast, 
Loud roars the wild inconstant blast ; 
Yon murky cloud is foul with rain, 
I see it driving o'er the plain ; 
The hunter now has left the moor, 
The scatter'd coveys meet secure ; 
While here I wander, prest with care- 
Along the lonely banks of Ayr. 



The Autumn mourns her rip'ning corn, 
By early Winter's ravage torn ; 
Across her placid, azure sky, 
She sees the scowling tempest fly : 
Chill runs my blood to hear it rave — 
I think upon the stormy wave, 
Where many a danger I must dare, 
Far from the bonnie banks of Ayr. 



'Tis not the surging billow's roar, 
'Tis not that fatal deadly shore ; 
Tho' death in ev'ry shape appear, 
The wretched have no more to fear ! 
But round my heart the ties are bound, 
That heart transpierc'd with many a wound \ 
These bleed afresh, those ties I tear, 
To leave the bonnie banks of Ayr. 




■Trmis JLASS @F 



& A ]L JL © <S JE ffi T IL IS , 



Willi ca 

a i rejoiced in nature': joy, 

\\ be siog mi a lonely glade , 

dden fair [chanced o 



OS- KOE3RT BURNS 



145 



Farewell old Coila's hills and dales, 
Her heathy moors and winding vales ; 
The scenes where wretched fancy roves, 
Pursuing past, unhappy loves ! 
Farewell, my friends ! farewell, my foas \ 
My peace with these, my love with those— 
The bursting tears my heart declare ; 
Farewell, the bonnie banks of Ayr ! 



XXX [I. 

<S) foijar hit) gc get. 

Tune. — " Bonnie Dundee.' 



; This is one of the first songs which Burns communicated to Joik;> 
sm's Musical Museum: the starting verse is partly ciu and par.;;, 
new • the second is wholly by his hand.] 



0, whae did ye get that hauver meal bannock V 

silly blind body, O dinna ye see ? 
I gat it frae a young brisk sodger laddie. 

Between Saint Johnston and bonnie DumteA 
gin I saw the laddie that gae me 't ! 

Aft has he doudl'd me up on his knee; 
May Heaven protect my bonnie Scots laddie, 

And send him safe hame to his babie aad 



My blessin's upon thy sweet wee lippie, 

My blessin's upon thy bonnie e'e brie ! 
Thy smiles are sae like my blyth sodger laddie, 

Thou's ay the dearer and dearer to me! 
But I'll big a bower on yon bonnie banks, 

Where Tay rins wimplin' by sae clear ; 
And I'll deed thee in the tartan sae fine, 

And mak thee a man like thy daddie dear. 



XXXIII. 

Tune. — " Maggy Lauder." 



I Most of this song is by Burns : his fancy was filled with images 
' f matrimonial joy or infelicity, and he had them ever reatly st tae 
call of the muse. It was first printed in the Musical Museum.] 



I married with a scolding wife 
The lourteenth of November j 

She made me weary of my life. 
By one unruly member. 



Long did I bear the heavy yoke, 
And many griefs attended ; 

But to my comfort be it spoke, 
Now, now her life is ended. 



We liv'd full one-und-twenty years 

A man and wife together ; 
At length from me her course she steer'd 

And gone I know not whither : 
Would I could guess, I do profess, 

I speak, and do not flatter, 
Of all the women in the world, 

I never could come at her. 



Her body is bestowed well, 

A handsome grave does hide her, 
But sure her soul is not in hell, 

The deil would ne'er abide her. 
I rather think she is aloft, 

And imitating thunder ; 
For why, — methinks I hear her voice 

Tearing the clouds asunder. 



XXXIV. 

(5ome Dofon tfje sUacfe jktairs. 

Tune. — "Whistle, and Til come to you, my LcjV 



[The air of this song was composed by John Rruce, a Dumfries 
fiddler. Emms gave another and happier version to the work of 
Thomson : this was written for the Museum of Jonnson, where i* 
was first published.] 



O whistle, and I'll come 

To you, my lad • 
whistle, and I'll come 

To you, my lad: 
Tho' father and mither 

Should baith gae mad, 
whistle, and I'll come 

To you my lad. 

Come down the back stairs 

When ye come to court me , 
Come down the back stairs 

When ye come to court ma , 
Come down the back stairs, 

And let naebody see, 
And come as ye were na 

Coming to me. 



146 



THE POETICAL WORKS 






XXXV 

5 am mg JWammVg ae 33atrn. 

Tune. — il Vm o'er young to marry yet?' 



fThe title, and part of the chorus only of this song are old; tbe 
rest is by Burns, and was written for Johnson.] 



I am my mammy's ae bairn, 

Wi' unco folk I weary, Sir ; 
And lying in a man's bed, 

I'm fley'd it make me eerie, Sir. 
I'm o'er young to marry yet ; 

I'm o'er youDg to marry yet ; 
I'm o'er young — 'twad be a sin 
To tak me frae my mammy yet. 



Hallowmas is come and gane, 
The nights are lang in winter, Sir ; 

And you an' I in ae bed, 

In trouth, I dare na venture, Sir. 



Fu' loud and shill the frosty wind, 

Blaws through the leafless timmer, Sir ; 
But if ye come this gate again, 
I'll aulder be gin simmer, Sir. 

I'm o'er young to marry yet; 

I'm o'er young to marry yet ; 
I'm o'er young, 'twad be a sin 
To tak me frae my mammy y ui. 






XXXVI 

33owue Haggte, foill g* go. 

Tune. — " The birks of Aberfeldy."" 



I An old strain, caned " The Birks of Abergeldie," was the forerun- 
ner of this sweet song : it was written, the poet says, standing under 
the Falls of Aberfeldy, near Moness, in Perthshire, during one of the 
tons which he made to the north, in the year 1787.] 



Bonnie lassie, will ye go, 
Will ye go, will ye go ; 
Bonnie lassie, will ye go 
To the birks of Aberfeldy? 



Now simmer blinks on flowery braes, 
And o'er the crystal streamlet plays ; 
n ome let us spend the lightsome days 
In the birks of Aberfeldy. 



The little birdies blithely sing, 
While o'er their heads the hazels hing, 
Or lightly flit on wanton wing 
In the birks of Aberfeldy. 



The braes ascend, like lofty wa's, 
The foamy stream deep-roaring fa's, 
O'erhung wi' fragrant spreading shaws„ 
The birks of Aberfeldy. 



The hoary cliffs are crowned wi' flowers, 
White o'er the linns the burnie pours, 
And rising, weets wi' misty showers 
The birks of Aberfeldy. 



Let Fortune's gifts at random flee, 
They ne'er shall draw a wish frae me, 
Supremely blest wi' love and thee, 
In the birks of Aberfeldy. 
Bonnie lassie, will ye go, 
Will ye go, will ye go ; 
Bonnie lassie, will ye go 
To the birks of Aberfeldy ? 



XXXVII. 
i¥tacpf)ctgon'0 jparetodl. 

Tune.—" M'Pherson's Rant." 



[This vehement and daring song had its origin in an older and in- 
ferior strain, recording the feelings of "a noted freebooter when brought 
to "justify his deeds on the gallows-tree" at Inverness.] 



Farewell, ye dungeons dark and strong, 

The wretch's destinie ! 
Macpherson's time will not be long 
On yonder gallows-tree. 

Sae rantingly, sae wantonly, 

Sae dauntingly gaed he ; 
He play'd a spring, and dane'd it round; 
Below the gallows-tree. 



Ob, what is death but parting breath ? 

On many a bloody plain 
I've dar'd his face, and in this place 

I scorn him yet again ! 



Untie these bands from off my hands, 
And bring to me my sword; 

And there's no a man in ail Scotland, 
But I'll brave him at a word. 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



147 



£Ve liv'd a life of sturt and strife ; 

I die by treacherie : 
It burns my heart I must depart, 

And not avenged be. 



Now farewell light — thou sunshine bright, 

And all beneath the sky ! 
May coward shame distain his name, 
The wretch that dares not die ! 
Sae rantingly, sae wantonly, 

Sae dauntingly gaed he; 
He play'd a spring, and danc'd it round, 
Below the gallows-tree. 



XXXVIIT. 

iSrato &ab# of ffialla 2&at?r. 

Tune.— "Galla Water." 



[Hums found this song in the collection of Herd ; added the first 
perse, made ether but not material emendations, and published it in 
J Dhnson : in 1793 he wrote another version for Thomson.] 



CHORUS. 

Braw, braw lads of Galla Water ; 

braw lads of Galla "Water : 
I'll kilt my coats aboon my knee, 

And follow my love thro' the water. 



Sae fair her hair, sae brent her brow, 
Sae bonny blue her een, my dearie ; 

Sae white her teeth, sae sweet her inou', 
The mair I kiss she's ay my dearie. 



O'er yon bank and o'er yon brae, 
O'er yon moss amang the heather ; 

I'll kilt my coats aboon my knee, 
And follow my love thro' the water. 



Down amang the broom, the broom, 

Down amang the broom my dearie, 
The lassie lost a silken snood, 

That cost her mony a blirt and bleary. 
Braw, braw lads of Galla Water ; 

O braw lads of Galla Water : 
I'll kilt my coats aboon my knee, 
And follow my love thro' the water. 



XXXIX 

j&tag, mg (Charmer. 

Tune. — " An Gille duhh ciar dhiibh." 



f The air of this song was picked up by the poet in one of his north- 
ern tours: his Highland excursions coloured many of his lyric corn- 
positions.] 



Stay, my charmer, can you leave me ? 

Cruel, cruel, to deceive me ! 

Well you know how much you grieve me ; 

Cruel charmer, can you go ? 

Cruel charmer, can you go ? 



By my love so ill requited ; 

By the faith you fondly plighted ; 

By the pangs of lovers slighted ; 

Do not, do not leave me so ! 

Do not, do not leave me so ! 



XL. 
$H){etet Kig^t, o'edjang mg UtoelUng. 

Tune. — " Strathallan's Lament." 






[The Viscount Strathallan, whom this song a 
William Drummond: he was slain at the carnage of Culloden. 
was long believed that he escaped to France and died in exile.] 



Thickest night, surround my dwelling ■ 
Howling tempests, o'er me rave ! 

Turbid torrents, wintry swelling, 
Roaring by my lonely cave ! 



Crystal streamlets gently flowing, 
Busy haunts of base mankind, 

Western breezes softly blowing, 
Suit not my distracted mind. 



In the cause of Bight engaged, 
Wrongs injurious to redress, 

Honour's war we strongly waged, 
But the heavens denied success. 



Ruin's wheel has driven o'er us, 
Not a hope that dare attend, 

The wild world is all before us- - 
But a world without a friend 



U8 



rHE political works 



XLI 



Tune -" What will I do gin my Hoggie die ? 



[Burns was struck with the pastoral wildness of this Liddesdale 
air, and wrote these words to it for the Museum : the first line only 
b old.] 



What will I do gin my Hoggie die ? 

My joy, my pride, my Hoggie ! 
My only beast, I had nae raae, 

And vow but I was vogie ! 
The lee-lang night we watch'd the fauld, 

Me and my faithfu' doggie ; 
We heard nought but the roaring linn, 

Amang the braes sae scroggie; 
But the houlet cry'd frae the castle wa', 

The blitter frae the boggie, 
The tod reply' d upon the hill, 

I trembled for my Hoggie. 
When day did daw, and cocks did craw, 

The morning it was foggie ; 
An ; unco tyke lap o'er the dyke, 

And maist has kill'd my Hoggie. 



XLIL 

P^er Uafctite forbati. 

Tune. — " Jum-piii 1 John." 



[This is one of the old songs which Ritson accuses Burns cf amend- 
ing for the Museum: little of it, however, is his, save a touch here 
ind there— but they are Burns' touches.] 



Her daddie forbad, her minnie forbad ; 

Forbidden she wadna be : 
She wadna trow't, the browst she brew'd 
Wad taste sae bitterlie. 

The lang lad they ca' Jumpin' John 

Beguiled the bonnie lassie, 
The lang lad they ca' Jumpin' John 
Beguiled the bonnie lassie. 



A cow and a cauf, a yowe and a hauf^ 

And thretty gude shillin's and three ; 
A. vera gude tocher, a cotter-man's dochter, 
The lass with the bonnie black e'e. 

The lang lad they ca' Jumpin' John 

Beguiled the bonnie lassie, 
The lang lad they ca' Jumpin' John 
Beguiled the bonnie lassie. 



XLTII 

Op in tf)e interning earfg. 

Tune.—" Cold blows the Wind." 



[" The chorus of this song," says the poet, in his notes on the Scot' 
tish Lyrics, " is old, the two stanzas are mine." The air is ancient, 
and was a favourite with Mary Stuart, the queen of William the 
Third.] 



Up in the morning's no for me, 

Up in the morning early ; 
When a' the hills are cover'd wi' snaw, 

I'm sure it's winter fairly. 



Cauld blaws the wind frae east to west, 

The drift is driving sairly ; 
Sae loud and shill I hear the blast, 

I'm sure it's winter fairly. 



The birds sit chittering in the thorn, 

A' day they fare but sparely ; 
And lang's the night frae e'en to morn — 
I'm sure it's winter fairly. 

Up in the morning's no for me, 
Up in the morning early ; , 
When a' the hills are cover'd wi' snan- 
I'm sure it's winter fairly. 



XLIV. 

THE 

¥®ur.§ ffil$)\mX) Mobcr. 

Tune. " Moray." 



[The Young Highland Rover of this strain is supposed by some U! 
be the Chevalier, and with moie piobaoility, by others, to be a Gordon, 
as the song was composed in consequence of the poet's visit to " bon 
nie Castle-Gordon," in September, 1787-] 



Loud blaw the frosty breezes, 
The snaws the mountains cover ; 

Like winter on me seizes, 

Since my young Highland rover 
Far wanders nations over. 

Where'er he go, where'er he stray, 
May Heaven be his warden : 

Return him safe to fair Strathspey, 
And bonnie Castle-Gordon ! 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



U» 



The trees now naked groaning, 
Shall soon wi' leaves be hinging, 

The birdies dowie moaning, 
Shall a' be blithely singing, 
And every flower be springing. 

Sae I'll rejoice the lee-lang day, 
When by his mighty Warden 

My youth's returned to fair Strathspey, 
And bonnie Castle-Gordon. 



XLV. 
$?eg, t\)t Bujstg #vtUer. 

Tune.—" The Dusty Miller." 



[The Dusty Miller is an old strain, modified for the Museum by 
Rums : it is a happy specimen of his taste and skill in making 
the new look like the old.] 



Hey, the dusty miller, 

And his dusty coat ; 

He will win a shilling, 

Or he spend a groat. 

Dusty was the coat, 

Dusty was the colour, 
Dusty was the kiss 

That I got frae the rail:; 



Hey, the dusty miller 

And his dusty sack ; 

Leeze me on the calling 

Fills the dusty peck. 

Fills the dusty peck, 

Brings the dusty siller ; 
I wad gie my coatie 
For the dusty miller. 



XL VI. 

^ijtn foa# a Sags. 

Tune.—" Duncan Davison.' 1 '' 



iTliere are several other versions of Duncan Davison, which it is 
more delicate to allude to than to quote : this one is in the Museum.] 



There was a lass, they ca'd her Meg, 
And she held o'er the moors to spin ; 

There was a lad that follow'd her, 
Thej ca'd him Duncan Davison. 



The moor was driegh, and Meg was skiegh, 
Iler favour Duncan could na win 

For wi' the roke she wad him knock, 
And ay she shook the temper-pin. 



As o'er the moor they lightly foor, 

A burn was clear, a glen was green, 
Upon the banks they eas'd their shanks, 

And ay she set the wheel between : 
But Duncan swore a haly aith, 

That Meg should be a bride the morn, 
Then Meg took up her spinnin' graith, 

And flang them a' out o'er the burn. 



We'll big a house, — a wee, wee house, 

And we will live like king and queen, 
Sae blythe and merry we will be 

When ye set by the wheel at e'en. 
A man may drink and no be drunk ; 

A man may fight and no be slain ; 
A man may kiss a bonnie lass, 

And ay be welcome back again. 



XL VII. 

kernel 0im}M Bonnie J&ari) 

Tune.—" The Ruffian's Rant" 



[Burns, it is believed, wrote this song during his first Highland 
tour, when he danced among the northern dames, to the rune o/ 
" Bab at the Bowster," till the morning sun rose and reproved than 
from the top of Ben Lomond.] 



In coming by the brig o' Dye, 

At Darlet we a blink did tarry ; 
As day was dawin in the sky, 

We drank a health to bonnie Mary. 

Theniel Menzies bonnie Mary ; 

Theniel Menzies' bonnie Mary • 
Charlie Gregor tint his plaidie, 
Kissin' Theniel's bonnie Mary. 



Her een sae bright, her brow sae white, 
Her haffet locks as brown's a berry ; 

And ay, they dimpl't wi' a smile, 
The rosy cheeks o' bonnie Mary. 



We lap and danced the lee lang day, 

Till piper lads were wae and weary ; 
But Charlie gat the spring to pay, 
For kissin' Theniel's bonnie Mary. 

Theniel Menzies' bonnie Mary, 

Theniel Menzies' bonnie Mary; 
Charlie Gregor tint his plaidie, 
Kissin' Theniel's bonnie Mary 






150 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



XLVIII. 

Tune. — " Bhannerach dhon na chri.' 



[These verse: were composed on a charming young lady, Charlotte 
Hamilton, sister to the poet's friend, Gavin Hamilton of Mauchline, 
residing., when the song was written, at Harvieston,on the banks of 
tne Devon, in the county of Clackmannan, j 



How pleasant the banks of the clear winding 
Devon, 
"With green spreading bushes, and flowers 
blooming fair ! 
But the bonniest flower on the banks of the 
Devon 
"Was once a sweet bud on the braes of the 
Ayr. 
Mild be the sun on this sweet blushing flower, 
In the gay rosy morn, as it bathes in the 
dew; 
And gentle the fall of the soft vernal shower, 
That steals on the evening each leaf to re- 
new. 



spare the dear blossom, ye orient breezes, 
With chill hoary wing, as ye usher the 
dawn; 
And far be thou distant thou reptile that 
seizes 
The verdure and pride of the garden and 
lawn ! 
Let Bourbon exult in his gay gilded Lilies, 
And England, triumphant, display her proud 
Rose : 
A fairer than either adorns the green vallies, 
Where Devon, sweet Devon, meandering 
flowa 



XLIX. 

©SUarg fa' gott, Duncan (£ran. 

Tunc. — "Duncan Gray." 



[The original Duncan Gray, out of which the present strain was 
extracted for Johnson, had r.o right to be called u lad of grace: an- 
other version, and in a happier mood, was written for Thomson. | 



Weary fa* you, Duncan Gray — 

Ha, ha, the girdin o't ! 
Wae gae by you, Duncan Gray — 

Ha, ha, the girdin o't I 
When a' the lave gae to their play, 
Then I maun sit the lee lang day, 
And jog the cradle wi' my tae, 

And a' for the girdin o't ! 



Bonnie was the Lammas moon — 

Ha, ha, the girdin o't ! 
Glowrin' a' the hills aboon — 

Ha, ha, the girdin o't ! 
The girdin brak, the beast cam down, 
I tint my curch, and baith my shoon ; 
Ah ! Duncan, ye're an unco loon — 

Wae on the bad girdin o't ! 



But, Duncan, gin ye'll keep your aith — 

Ha. ha, the girdin o't ! 
Ise bless you wi' my hindmost breath — 

Ha, ha, the girdin o't ! 
Duncan, gin ye'll keep your aith, 
The beast again can bear us baith, 
And auld Mess John will mend the skaith 

And clout the bad girdin o't. 



L. 

Wfyt itfHougiJman. 

Tune. — " Up wV tiie Ploughman." 



[The old words, of which these in the Museum are an altered a»a 
amended version, are in the collection of Herd.] 



The ploughman he's a bonnie lad, 

His mind is ever true, jo , 
His garters knit below his knee, 
His bonnet it is blue, jo. 

Then up wi' him my ploughman lad. 
And hey my merry ploughman ! 
Of a' the trades that I do ken, 
Commend me to the ploughman. 



My ploughman he comes hame at e'en, 

He's aften wat and weary; 
Cast off the wat, put on the dry, 

And gae to bed, my dearie ! 



I will wash my ploughman's hose. 
And I will dress his o'erlay; 

I will mak my ploughman's bed, 
And cheer him late and early. 



I hae been east, I hae been west, 
I hae been at Saint Johnston ; 

The bonniest sight that e'er I saw 
Was the ploughman laddie dancin'. 



OF HOBERT BURNS. 



151 



Snaw-white stockins on his legs, 
And siller buckles glancin' ; 

A gude blue bonnet on his head — 
And O, but he was handsome ! 



Commend me to the barn-yard, 

And the corn-mou, man ; 
I never gat my ccggie fou, 
Till I met wi' the ploughman. 

Up wi' him my ploughman lad, 

And hey my merry ploughman ! 
Of a' the trades that I do ken, 
Commend me to the ploughman. 



LI 

iZanrjlatip, count tfte Safotn. 

Tune. — "Hey Tutti, Taiti." 



[Of this song tne first and second verses are by Rums : the closing 
verse belongs to a strain threatening Britain with an invasion from 
tiic iron-handed Charles XII. of Sweden, to avenge his own wrongs 
Mid restore the line of the Stuarts.] 



Landlady, count the lawin, 
The day is near the dawin ; 
Ye're a' blind drunk, boys. 
And I'm but jolly fou. 
Hey tuttij taiti, 
How tutti, taiti — 
Wha's fou now ? 



Cog an* ye were ay fou, 
Cog an' ye were ay fou, 
I wad sit and sing to you 
If ye were ay fou. 

in 

Weel may ye a' be ! 

Ill may we never see ! 

God bless the king, 
And the companie I 
Hey tutti, taiti, 
How tutti, taiti — 
Wha's fou now ? 



LIT. 

iHabtna 2&(nu$ arounti f)et Nofotng. 

Tune. — " Macgregor of Kurd's Lament." 



[ K I composed these verses," says Burns, "on Miss Isabella M'Leod 
of Kaza, alluding to her feelings on the death of her sister, and tlw 
still more melancholy death of her sister's husband, the late Ear! 0/ 
Loudon, in 178b\"J 



Raving winds around her blowing, 
Yellow leaves the woodlands strowing, 
By a river hoarsely roaring, 
Isabella stray' d deploring — 
" Farewell hours that late did measure 
Sunshine days of joy and pleasure; 
Hail, thou gloomy night of sorrow, 
Cheerless night that knows no morrow ! 



" O'er the past too fondly wandering, 
On the hopeless future pondering ; 
Chilly grief my life-blood freezes, 
Fell despair my fancy seizes. 
Life, thou soul of every blessing, 
Load to misery most distressing, 
Gladly how would I resign thee, 
And to dark oblivion join thee !" 






LIII. 
|g?ofo long ant) Drears te \\)z Higfjt. 

To a Gaelic air. 



[Composed for the Museum : the air of this affecting strain is true 
Highland : Burns, though not a musician, had a fine natural reftt 
in the matter of national melodies.] 



How long and dreary is the night 
When I am frae my dearie ! 

I sleepless lie frae e'en to morn, 
Tho' I were ne'er sae weary. 

I sleepless lie frae e'en to morn, 
Tho' I were ne'er sae weary. 



When I think on the happy days 
I spent wi' you, my dearie, 

And now what lands between us lie, 
How can I be but eerie ! 

And now what lands between us lie, 
How can I be but eerie ! 



!52 



THE POETICAL WOKKS 



How slow ye move, ye heavy hours, 
As ye were wae and weary ! 

It was na sae ye glinted by, 
When I was wi' my dearie. 

It was na sae ye glinted by, 
When I was wi' my dearie. 



LIV 

iiilusmg on tl)e roaring #c*an. 

Tune. — " Brxdmion dubh." 



[The air of this song Is from the Highlands : the verses were writ- 
ten in compliment to the feelings of Mrs. M'L&uchlan, whose hus- 
band was an officer serving In the East Inches, j 



Musing on the roaring ocean, 
Which divides my love and me ; 

Wearying heaven in warm devotion, 
For his weal where'er he be. 



Hope and fear's alternate billow 
Yielding late to nature's law, 

Whisp'ring spirits round my pillow 
Talk of him that's far awa. 



Ye whom sorrow never wounded, 
Ye who never shed a tear, 

Oare-un troubled, joy-surrounded, 
Gaudy day to you is dear. 



Gentle night, do thou befriend me ; 

Downy sleep, the curtain draw ; 
Spirits kind, again attend me, 

Talk of him that's far awa ! 



Tune. 



LV 

mitt)* foa* £fce. 

-" Andro and his Cutty GunS 



[The heroine of this song, Euphemia Murray, of Lintrose, w&s 
;ustly called the " Flower of Strathmcre :" she is now widow of Lord 
Methven, one of the Scottish judges, and mother of a fine family. 
The song was written at Ochtertyre, in June 17#7»1 



Blithe, blithe and merry was she, 
Blithe was she but and ben : 

Blithe by the banks of Ern, 
And blithe in Glenturit glen. 



By Auchtertyre grc ws the aik, 

On Yarrow banks the birken shaw ( 

But Phemie was a bonnier lass 
Than braes of Yarrow ever saw. 



Her looks were like a flow'r in May, 
Her smile was like a simmer morn 

She tripped by the banks of Ern, 
As light 's a bird upon a thorn. 



Her bonnie face it was as meek 

As ony lamb upon a lea ; 
The evening sun was ne'er sae sweet, 

As was the blink o' Pheraie's ee. 



The Highland hills I've wander'd wide, 

And o'er the Lowlands I hae been ; 
But Phemie was the blithest lass 
That ever trod the dewy green. 

Bilthe, blithe and merry was she, 

Blithe was she but and ben : 
Blithe by the banks of Ern, 
And blithe in Glenturit glen. 



LVI. 

Z\)t 33luti* &ri) &oge at Yule mag Maty, 

Tune. — " To daunton me" 



[The Jacocobite strain of " To daunton me," must have beer, in 
the mind of the poet when he wrote this pithy lyric for the Mustum.j 



The blude red rose at Yule may blaw, 

The simmer lilies bloom in snaw, 

The frost may freeze the deepest sea ; 

But an auld man shall never daunton me. 
To daunton me, and me so young, 
Wi' his fause heart and flatt'ring tongue, 
That is the thing you ne'er shall see ; 
For an auld man shall never daunton me. 



For a' his meal and a' his niaut, 
For a' his fresh beef and his saut, 
For a' his gold and white monie, 
An auld man shall never daunton me. 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



158 



His gear may buy him kye and yowes, 
His gear may buy him glens and knowes ; 
But me he shall not buy nor fee, 
For an auld man shall never daunton me. 



He hirples twa fauld as he dow, 
Wi' his teethless gab and his auld held pow, 
And the rain rains down frae his red bleer'd ee— 
That auld man shall never daunton me. 
To daunton me, and me sae young, 
Wi' his fause heart and flatt'ring tongue, 
That is the thing you ne'er shall see ; 
For an auld man shall never daunton me. 



LVII. 
@omc $oat nu o'tt to ©harlu. 

Tune. — " O'er the Water to Charlie" 



(The second stanza of this song, and nearly all the third, are by 
Burns. Many songs, some of merit, on the same subject, and to the 
some air, were in other days current in Scotland.] 



Come boat me o'er, come row me o'er, 

Come boat me o'er to Charlie ; 
I'll gie John Ross another bawbee, 
To bfeat me o'er to Charlie. 

We'll o'er the water and o'er the sea, 

We'll o'er the water to Charlie ; 
Come weal, come woe, we'll gather and go, 
And live or die wi' Charlie. 



1 lo'e weel my Charlie's name, 
Tho' some there be abhor him : 

But O, to see auld Nick gaun hame 
And Charlie's faes before him ! 



I swear and vow by moon and stare, 

And sun that shines so early, 
If I had twenty thousand lives, 
I'd die as aft for Charlie. 

We'll o'er the water and o'er the sea, 

We'll o'er the water to Charlie ; 
Come weal, come woe, we'll gather and go, 
And live or die wi ' Charlie ! 



lviii:. 

Tune.—" The Rose-bud." 



[The "Rose-hud" of these sweet verses was Miss Jean f.'iuick- 
shank, afterwards Mrs. Henderson, daughter of William Cruick- 
shank, of St. James's Square, one of the masters of the Hip-'V School 
of Edinburgh: she is also the subject of a poem equally sweet. ) 



A rose-bud by my early walk, 
Adown a corn-enclosed bawk, 
Sae gently bent its thorny stalk. 

All on a dewy morning. 
Ere twice the shades o' dawn are fled. 
In a' its crimson glory spread, 
And drooping rich the dewy head, 

It scents the earlv morning. 



Within the bush, her covert nest 
A little linnet fondly prest, 
The dew sat chilly on her breast 

Sae early in the morning. 
She soon shall see her tender brood, 
The pride, the pleasure o' the wood, 
Amang the fresh green leaves bedew' d, 

Awake the early morning. 



So thou, dear bird, young Jeany fair, 
On trembling string or vocal air, 
Shall sweetly pay the tender care 

That tends thy early morning. 
So thou, sweet rose-bud, young and gay, 
Shalt beauteous blaze upon the day, 
And bless the parent's evening ray 

That watch 'd thy early morning. 



LIX. 

ftattUn* roavm' 3®Mic. 

Tune. — " Rattlin'. roarin' Willie.'''' 



\" The hero of this chant," says Burns, " was one of the worthies: 
fellows in the world— William Dunbar, Esq., Writer to the Sign«. 
Edinburgh, and Colonel of the Crochallan corps— a club of wits, whe 
took thai title at the time of raising the fehcible regiments."] 



O rattlin', roarin' Willie, 

O, he held to the fair, 
An' for to sell his fiddle, 

An' buy some other ware j 
But parting wi' his fiddle, 

The saut tear blin't his ee ; 
And rattlin' ?oarin' Willie, 

Ye're welcome hame to me ! 



154 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



"Willie, come sell your fiddle, 

O sell your fiddle sae fine; 
Willie, come sell your fiddle, 

And buy a pint o' wine ! 
If I should sell my fiddle, 

The warl' would think I was mad ; 
For mony a rantin' day 

My fiddle and I hae had. 



As I cam by Crochallan, 

I cannily keekit ben — 
Rattlin', roarin' Willie 

Was sitting at yon board en' ; 
Sitting at yon board en', 

And amang guid companie ; 
Rattlin', roarin' Willie, 

Ye're welcome hame to me ! 



LX. 

tracing angtg S^itttzt'g j^torms. 

Tune. — "Neil Gouts Lamentation for Abercaim 



[" This song," says the poet, " I composed on one of the most ac- 
complished Df women, Miss Peggy Chalmers that was, now Mrs. 
Lewis Hay, of Forbes and Co's. bank, Edinburgh." She now lives 
at Pau, in tie south of France.] 



Where, braving angry winter's storms, 

The lofty Ochels rise, 
Far in their shade my Peggy's charms 

First blest my wondering eyes ; 
As one who by some savage stream, 

A lonely gem surveys, 
Astonish'd, doubly marks its beam, 

With art's most jjolish'd blaze. 



Blest be the wild, sequester'd shade, 

And blest the day and hour, 
Where Peggy's charms I first survey 1 d, 

When first I felt their power ! 
The tyrant Death, with grim control, 

May seize my fleeting breath ; 
But tearing Peggy from my soul 

M ust be a stronger death* 



LX1. 
t&ibUt liunfear. 

Tune.— " Johnny M l G*JL" 



(We owe the air of this song to one Johnnie M'Gill, a fiddler o! 
Girvan, who bestowed his own name on it; and the song itself 
partly to Burns and partly to some unknown mmstrei. They arc 
both in the Museum.] 



O, wilt thou go wi' me, 

Sweet Tibbie Dunbar ? 
O, wilt thou go wi' me, 

Sweet Tibbie Dunbar ? 
Wilt thou ride on a horse, 

Or be drawn in a car, 
Or walk by my side, 

O sweet Tibbie Dunbar ? 



I care na thy daddie. 

His lands and his money., 
I care na thy kindred, 

Sae high and sae lordly: 
But say thou wilt hae me 

For better for waur — 
And come in thy coatie, 

Sweet Tibbie Dunbar ! 



LXII 

j&treams tfrat glttie m (Ment plains 

Tune. — " Morag," 



[We owe these verses to the too brief visit which the poet, in 178? t 
made to Gordon Castle: he was hurried away, much against hi» will, 
by his moody and obstinate friend William Nicol.] 



Streams that glide in orient plains, 
Never bound by winter's chains ; 

Glowing here on golden sands, 
There commix'd with foulest stains 

From tyranny's empurpled bands ; 
These, their richly gleaming waves, 
I leave to tyrants and their slaves ; 
Give me the stream that sweetly laves 
The banks by Castle Gordon. 

IL 
Spicy forests, ever gay, 
Shading from the burning ray, 

Hapless wretches sold to toil, 
Or the ruthless native's way, 

Bent on slaughter, blood, and spot' 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



Woods that ever verdant wave, 
I leave the tyrant and the slave, 
Give me the groves that lofty brave 
The storms by Castle Gordon. 



Wildly here without control, 
Nature reigns and rules the whole ; 

In that sober pensive mood, 
Dearest to the feeling soul, 

She plants the forest, pours the flood : 
Life's poor day I'll musing rave, 
And find at night a sheltering cave, 
Where waters flow and wild woods wave, 
By bonnie Castle Gordon. 



LXIII. 

^g l^arrg foag a (Mlant gar>. 

Tune. — " Highlander's Lament.''* 



["The chorus," says Burns, " I picked up from an old woman in 
Diunblane : the rest of the song is mine." He composed it for John- 
son : the tone is Jacobitical.J 



My Harry was a gallant gay, 

Fu' stately strode he on the plain : 
But now he's banish' d far away, 
I'll never see him back again. 

for him back again ! 

O for him back again ! 

1 wad gie a' Knockhaspie's land 

For Highland Harry back again. 



When a' the lave gae to their bed, 
I wander dowie up the glen ; 

I set me down and greet my fill, 
And ay I wish him back again. 



were some villains hangit high, 

And ilka body had their ain 1 
Then I might see the joyfu' sighi, 

My Highland Harry back aguh?. 

for him back again ! 

O for him back again ! 

1 wad gi-e a' Knockhaspie's land 

For Highland Harry back again. 



Tune.- 



155 
LXIV. 
Z\)t ^Tailor. 

u The Tailor fell thro* the bed, thimbles 
an* a'." 



[The second and fourth verses are by Hums, the rest is very oid 
the air is also very old, and is played at trade festivals and processions 
by the Corporation of Tailors.] 



The Tailor fell thro' the bed, thimbles an' a', 
The Tailor fell thro' the bed, thimbles an' a' ; 
The blankets were thin, and the sheets they were 

sma', 
The Tailor fell thro' the bed, thimbles an' a'. 



The sleepy bit lassie, she dreaded nae ill, 
The sleepy bit lassie she dreaded nae ill ; 
The weather was cauld, and the lassie lay still, 
She thought that a tailor could do her nae ill 



Gie me the groat again, canny young man ; 
Gie me the groat again, canny young man ; 
The day it is short, and the night it is lang, 
The dearest siller that ever I wan ! 



There's somebody weary wi' lying her lane ; 
There's somebody weary wi' lying her lane ; 
There's some that are dowie, I trow would be fain 
To see the bit tailor come skippin' again. 



LXV 

j£tmmer'<3 a $leajsant fttmc. 

Tune. — " Ay waukin o'." 



[Tytler and Ritson unite in considering the air of these words as 
one of our most ancient melodies. The first veree of the song is from 
the hand of Burns ; the rest had the benefit of Ms emendations : it is 
to be found in the Museum.] 



Simmer's a pleasant time, 
Flow'rs of ev'ry colour ; 
The water rins o'er the heugh, 
And I long for my true lover. 
Ay waukin O, 

Waukin still and wearie : 
Sleep I can get nane 

For thinking on my dearie 



1515 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



When I sleep I dream, 
When I wank I'm eerie ; 

SJeep I can get nane 

For tliinking on my dearie. 



Lanely night comes on, 

A' the lave are sleeping ; 
I think on my honnie lad 
And I bleer my een with greetin'. 
Ay waukin O, 

Waukin still and wearie : 
Sleep I can get nane 

For thinking on my dearie. 



LXVI. 

ifrfoare o' bourne &nn. 

Tune.—" Ye Gallants bright.'" 

\ Burns wrote this song in honour of Ann Masterton, daughter of 
Alan Masterton, author of the air of Strathallan's Lament : she is 
now Mrs. Derbishire, and resides in London.] 



Ye gallants bright, I red ye right, 

Beware o' bonnie Ann ; 
Her comely face sae fu' o' grace, 

Your heart she will trepan. 
Her een sae bright, like stars by night, 

Her skin is like the swan ; 
Sae j imply lac'd her genty waist, 

That sweetly ye might span. 

ii. 

Youth, grace, and love attendant move, 

And pleasure leads the van : 
In a' their charms, and conquering arms, 

They wait on bonnie Ann. 
The captive bands may chain the hands, 

But love enslaves the man ; 
Ye gallants braw, I red you a', 

Beware o' bonnie Ann ! 



LXVII. 

Tune. — " The Gardener wV his paidle." 

[The air of this song is played annually at the procession of 
the Gardeners : the title only is old ; thD rest is the work of Bums. 
Every trade had, in other days, an air of its own, and songs to corres- 
oond ; 'nut toil and sweat came in harder measure, and drov» melo- 
"ies out of working-men's heads. 1 



When rosy May comes in wi' flowers, 
To deck her gay green-spreading bowers, 
Then busy, busy are his hours — 
The gard'ner wi' his pafclle. 



The crystal waters gently fa' ; 
The merry birds are lovers a' j 
The scented breezes round him blaw— 
The gard'ner wi' his paidle. 



When purple morning starts the hare 

To steal upon her early fare, 

Then thro' the dews he maun repair — 

The gard'ner wi' his paidle. 
When day, expiring in the west, 
The curtain draws of nature's rest, 
He flies to her arms he loe's best — 

The gard'ner wi' his paidle. 



LXVIII. 

^looming Kdlg. 

Tune. — " On a Bank of Flowers." 



[One of the lyrics of Allan Ramsay's collection seems to havet*«j 
in the mind of Burns when he wrote this : the words and air are tu 
the Museum.] 



On a bank of flowers, in a summer day, 

For summer lightly drest, 
The youthful blooming Nelly lay, 

With love and sleep opprest ; 
When Willie wand'ring thro' the wood, 

Who for her favour oft had sued, 
He gaz'd, he wish'd, he fear'd, lie blush'd, 

And trembled where he stood. 



Her closed eyes like weapons sheath'd, 

Were seal'd in soft repose ; 
Her lips still as she fragrant breath'd, 

It richer dy'd the rose. 
The springing lilies sweetly prest, 

Wild — wanton, kiss'd her rival breast ; 
He gaz'd, he wish'd, he fear'd, he blush'd- 

His bosom ill at rest. 



Her robes light waving in the breeze, 

Her tender limbs embrace ; 
Her lovely form, her native ease, 

All harmony and grace : 
Tumultuous tides his pulses roll, 

A faltering, ardent kiss he stole ; 
He gaz'd, he wish'd, he fear'd, he blush'd, 

And sigh'd his very soul. 



As flies the partridge from the brake, 

On fear-inspired wings, 
So Nelly starting, half awake, 

Away affrighted springs! : 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



157 



But Willy follow'd, as he should, 
He overtook her in a wood ; 

He vow'd, he pray'd, he found the maid 
Forgiving all and good. 



LXIX. 

ISty Dag returns. 

Tune. — et Seventh of November.'''' 



[The seventh of November was the anniversary of the marriage of 
Mr. and Mrs. Riddel, of Friars Carse, and these verses were composed 
Ir. compliment to the day.] 



The day returns, my bosom burns, 

The blissful day we twa did meet, 
Tho' winter wild in tempest toil'd, 

Ne'er summer-sun was half sae sweet. 
Than a' the pride that loads the tide, 

And crosses o'er the sultry line ; 
Than kingly robes, than crowns and globes, 

Heaven gave me more — it made thee mine ! 



While day and night can bring delight, 

Or nature aught of pleasure give, 
While joys above my mind can move, 

For thee, and thee alone, I live. 
When that grim foe of life below 

Comes in between to make us part, 
The iron hand that breaks our band, 

It breaks my bliss — it breaks my heart. 



LXX. 

i$tg Sobe sIk's but a Sassfe get. 

Tune. — " Lady Bandinscotti 's ReeV 



[.I hese verses had their origin in an olden strain, equally lively and 
less delicate : some of the old lines keep their place : the title is old. 
Both words and air are in the Musical Museum.] 



My love she's but a lassie yet, 

My love she's but a lassie yet ; 
We'll let her stand a year or twa, 

She'll no be half sae saucy yet. 
I rue the day I sought her, ; 

I rue the day I sought her, O ; 
Wha gets her needs na say he's woo'd, 

But he may say he's bought her, O ! 



Come, draw a drap o' the best o't yet, 

Come, draw a drap o' the best o't yet i 
Gae seek for pleasure where ye will, 

But here I never iniss'd it yet. 
We're a' dry wi' drinking o't ; 

We're a' dry wi' drinking o't ; 
The minister kiss'd the fiddler's wife, 

An' could na preach for thinkin' o't. 



LXXI. 

3jamte, come tvg me. 

Tune. — " Jamie, come try me." 



[Bums in these verses caught up the starting note of an old song, of 
which little more than the starting words deserve t« be remembered : 
the words and air are in the Musical Museum.] 



CHORUS. 

Jamie, come try me, 
Jamie, come try me ; 
If thou would win my love, 
Jamie, come try me. 



If thou should ask my love, 
Could I deny thee ? 

If thou would win my love, 
Jamie, come try me. 



If thou should kiss me, love, 

Wha could espy thee ? 
If thou wad be my love, 
Jamie, come try me. 
Jamie, come try me, 
Jamie, come try me ; 
If thou would win my love, 
Jamie, come try me. 



LXXIL 

J»2 Somite #targ. 

Tune. — " Go fetch to me a Pint o' Wine. 



[Concerning this fine song, Burns in his notes says, " This air Is 
Oswald's: the first half-stanza of the song is old, the rest is mine. 
It is believed, however, that the whole of the song is from his hand ■ 
in Hogg and Motherwell's edition of Burns, the starting Hrjea 
are supplied from an olden strain: but some of the old strains w 
that work are to be regarded with suspicion.J 



Go fetch to me a pint o' wine, 
An' fill it in a silver tassie ; 

That I may drink, before I go, 
A service to my bonnie lassie -. 



1^>8 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



The boat rocks at the pier o' Leith ; 

Fu 1 loud the wind blaws frae the ferry 5 
The ship rides by the Berwick-law, 

And I maun leave my bonnie Mary. 



The trumpets sound, the banners fly, 

The glittering spears are ranked ready ; 
The shouts o' war are heard afar, 

The battle closes thick and bloody ; 
It's not the roar o' sea or shore 

Wad make me langer wish to tarry ; 
Nor shouts o' war that's heard afar — 

It's leaving thee, my bonnie Mary. 



LXXIII. 

Tune. — " The Lazy Mist." 



f All that Burns says about the authorship of The Lazy Mist, is 
" This song is mine." The air, which is by Oswald, together with 
!he words, is in the Musical Museum.] 



The lazy mist hangs from the brow of the 
hill, 

Concealing the course of the dark winding 
rill; 

How languid the scenes, late so sprightly, ap- 
pear ! 

As Autumn to Winter resigns the pale year. 

The forests are leafless, the meadows are 
brown, 

And all the gay foppery of summer is flown : 

Apart let me wander, apart let me muse, 

How quick Time is flying, how keen Fate pur- 
sues ! 



LXX1V. 
®&e ©aptafn'g Satsg* 

Tune. — " O mount and </o.' 



[Part of this song belongs to an old maritime strain, a«!fj) tJit 
same title : it was communicated, along with many other iong8, 
made or amended by Burns, to the Musical Museum. j 



O mount and go, 

Mount and make you ready; 
O mount and go, 

And be the Captain's Lady, 



When the drums do beat, 
And the cannons rattle, 

Thou shall sit in state, 

And see thy love in battle. 



When the vanquish'd foe, 

Sues for peace and quiet, 
To the shades we'll go, 
And in love enjoy it. 
O mount and go, 

Mount and make you ready; 
O mount and go, 

And be the Captain's Lady. 



LXXV 

€f a't&e &ta tlje Wanb can falahj. 

Tune. — " Miss Admiral Gordon'' s Strathspey.' 



[Burns wrote this charming song in honour of Jean Armour : hf 
archly says in his notes, "P. S. it was during the honey-moon' 
Other versions are abroad ; this one is from the manuscripts of the 
port.] 



How long have I liv'd but how much liv'd in 

vain ! 
How little of life's scanty span may remain ! 
What aspects, old Time, in his progress, has 

worn ! 
What ties cruel Fate in my bosom has torn ! 
How foolish, or worse, till our summit is gain'd! 
And downward, how weaken' d, how darken 'd, 

how pain'd I 
Life is not worth having with all it can give — 
For something beyond it poor man sure must 

live. 



Of a' the airts the wind can blaw, 

I dearly like the west, 
For there the bonnie lassie lives, 

The lassie I lo'e best : 
There wild-woods grow, and rivers row, 

And mony a hill between ; 
But day and night my fancy's flight 

Is ever wi' my Jean. 



I see her in the dewy flowers, 
I see her sweet and fair : 

I hear her in the tunefu' birds, 
I hear her charm the air ; 



OF ROBERT BURNS 



1/50 



There's not a bonnie flower that springs 
By fountain, shaw, or green, 

There's not a bonnie bird that sings, 
But minds me o' my Jean. 



O blaw ye westlin winds, blaw saft 

Amang the leafy trees, 
Wi' balmy gale, frae hill and dale 

Bring hame the laden bees ; 
And bring the lassie back to me 

That's aye sae neat and clean ; 
Ae smile o' her wad banish care, 

Sae charming is my Jean. 



What sighs and vows amang the knowes 

Hae passed atween us twa ! 
How fond to meet, how wae to part, 

That night she gaed awa ! 
The powers aboon can only ken, 

To whom the heart is seen, 
That nane can be sae dear to me 

As my sweet lovely Jean ! 



LXXVI. 
iFttgt fofren J&aggg toas mj) ©are. 

Tune. — " Whistle o'er the lave o'£." 



| The air of this song was composed by John Bruce, of Dumfries, 
musician : the words, though originating in an olden strain, are 
wholly by Burns, and right bitter ones they are. The words and 
airareinthe Museum.] 



First when Maggy was my care, 
Heaven, I thought, was in her air ; 
Now we're married — spier nae mair- 

Whistle o'er the lave o't. — 
Meg was meek, and Meg was mild, 
Bonnie Meg was nature's child ; 
Wiser men than me's beguil'd — 

Whistle o'er the lave o't. 



How we live, my Meg and me, 
How we love, and how we 'gree, 
I care na by how few may see ; 

Whistle o'er the lave o't. — 
Wha I wish were maggots' meat, 
Dish'd up in her winding sheet, 
I could write — but Meg maun see't- - 

Whistle o'er the lave o't. 



LXXVII. 

®, foeve U on ^arnasisu*' f£iU. 

Tune. — " My Love is lost to me," 



[The poet we\comed with this exquisite song his ivtte eo \»<Sbi»- 
ilale : the alt Is one of Oswald's .] 



O, were I on Parnassus' hill ! 
Or had of Helicon my fill ; 
That I might catcli poetic skill, 

To sing how dear I love thee. 
But Nith maun be my Muse's well ; 
My Muse maun be thy bonnie sel'; 
On Corsincon I'll glow'r and spell, 

And write how dear I love thee. 



Then come, sweet Muse, inspire my lay ! 
For a' the lee-lang simmer's day 
I coudna sing, I coudna say, 

How much, how dear, I love thee. 
I see thee dancing o'er the green, 
Thy waist sae jimp, thy limbs sae clean, 
Thy tempting lips, thy roguish een — 

By heaven and earth I love thee ! 



By night, by day, a-field, at hame, 

The thoughts o' thee my breast i aflame { 

And aye I muse and sing thy name — 

I only live to love thee. 
Tho' I were doom'd to wander on 
Beyond the sea, beyond the sun, 
Till my last weary sand was run ; 

Till then — and then I love thee. 



LXXVIII. 
Hfym't a ¥outI) m tljte ©ttg. 

To a Gaelic Air. 



[« This air," says Burns, "is claimed by Neil Gow, who calls it 
a Lament for his Brother. The first half-stanza ol die songU old : 
the rest mine. " They are both in the Museum.] 



There's a youth in this city, 

It were a great pity 
That he frae our lasses shou'd wander awa . 

For he's bonnie an' braw, 

Weel favoured an' a, 
And his hair has a natural buckle an' n. ' 



16G 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



His coat is the hue 

Of his bonnet sae blue ; 
His fecket is white as the new driven snaw ; 

His hose they are blae, 

And his shoon like the slae, 
And his clear siller buckles they dazzle us a'. 



For beauty and fortune 

The laddie's been courtin' ; 
Weel-featured, weel-tocher'd. weel-niounted 
and braw ; 

But chiefly the siller, 

That gars him gang till her, 
The pennie's the jewel that beautifies a\ 

There's Meg wi' the mail en 

That fain wad a haen him ; 
And Susie, whose daddy was laird o' the ha' ; 

There's lang-tocher'd Nancy 

Maist fetters his fancy — 
But the laddie's dearsel' he lo'es dearest of a'. 



LXXTX. 

#tg ^cart's in tlje P^g&lantis. 

Tune. — " Failte na 



[The words and the air are in the Museum, to which they were 
contributed by Hums. He says, in his notes on that collection, " The 
first half-stanza of this song is old ; the rest mine." Of the old strain 
no one has recorded any remembrancer 



My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not 

here ; 
My heart's in the Highlands a chasing the deer; 
A chasing the wild deer, and following the roe — 
My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go. 
Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the 

North, 
The birth-place of valour, the country of 

worth ; 
Wherever I wander, wherever I rove, 
The hills of the Highlands for ever I love. 



Farewell to the mountains high cover'd with 
snow ; 

Farewell to the straths and green vallies be- 
low : 

Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging woods; 

Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring 
floods. 

My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not 
here, 

My heart's in the Highlands a chasing the 
deer: 

Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe — 

My heart's in the Highlands wherever 1 go. 



LXXX. 

%of)n ®ntietgon. 

Tune. — " John Anderson my jo.' 



TSoon after the death of Hums, the very handsome Miscellanies o! 
Brash and Keid, of Glasgow, contained what was called an im- 
proved John Anderson, from the pen of the Ayrshire bard ; bin, 
save the second stanza, none of the new matter looked like his 
hand. 

• "John Anderson my jo, John, 

When Nature first began 

To try her canniehand, John, 

Her master-piece was man ; 

And you amang them a', John, 

Sae trig frae tap to toe, 
She proved to be nae joumeywork 
John Anderson my Joe."] 



John Anderson my jo, John, 

When we were first acquent , 
Your locks were like the raven 

Your bonnie brow was brent; 
But now your brow is held, John, 

Your locks are like the snaw ; 
But blessings on your frosty pow, 

John Anderson my jo. 



John Anderson my jo, John, 

We clamb the hill thegither , 
And mony a canty day, John, 

We've had wi' ane anither : 
Now we maun totter down, John, 

But hand in hand we'll go ; 
And sleep thegither at the foot, 

John Anderson my jo. 



LXXXI. 

<Bux ^Thris^kg flourte&etJ ftegh ant) fair. 

Tune. — " Awa Whigs, awa." 



\ Hums trimmed up this old Jacobite ditty for the Museum, f..i\6 
added some of the bitterest bits : the second and fouith verses are 
wholly his.] 



Awa Whigs, awa ! 

Awa Whigs, awa ! 
Ye're but a pack o' traitor loans, 

Ye'll do nae good at a 










But now your brow is belcl, Join 
Your locks are like the stkv 



OF ROBERT BURNS 



16*1 



Oua thrissles flourish'd fresh and fair. 
And bonnie bloom' d our roses ; 

But Whigs came like a frost in June, 
And wither' d a' our posies. 



» >nr ancient crown's fa'n in the dust — 
Deil blin' them wi' the stoure o't ; 

And write their names in his black beuk, 
Wha gae the Whigs the power o't. 



Our sad decay in Church and State 
Surpasses my descriving ; 

The Whigs came o'er us for a curse, 
And we hae done wi' thriving. 



Gi im vengeance lang has ta'en a nap, 

But we may see him wauken ; 
Gude help the day when royal heads 
Are hunted like a maukin. 
Awa Whigs, awa ! 

Awa Whigs, awa ! 
Ye're but a pack o' traitor louus, 
Ye'll do nae gude at a*. 



LXXXII 

Tune. — " Co 1 the Ewes to the Knowes." 



\ Most of this sweet pastoral is of other days : Burns made several 
emendations, and added the concluding verse. He afterwards, it will 
be observed, wrote for Thomson a second version of the subject and 
the air.l 



Ca' the ewes to the knowes, 
Ca' them whare the heather grows, 
Ca* them whare the burnie rowes, 
My bonnie dearie ! 



As I gaed down the water-side, 
There I met my shepherd lad, 
He row'd me sweetly in his plaid, 
An' he c^'d me Ids dearie. 



Will ye gang down the water-side, 

And see the waves sae sweetly glide, 

Beneath the hazels spreading wide ? 

The moon it shines fu' clearly. 



I was bred up at nae sic school, 
My shepherd lad, to play the fool. 
And a' the day to sit in dool, 
And naebody to see me. 



Ye sail get gowns and ribbons meet, 
Cauf-leather shoon upon your feet, 
And in my arms ye'se lie and sleep, 
And ye sail be my dearie. 



If ye'll but stand to what ye've said, 
I'se gang wi' you, my shepherd lad, 
And ye may rowe me in your plaid. 
And I sail be your dearie. 



While waters wimple to the sea ; 
While day blinks in the lift sae liie ; 
'Till clay-cauld death sail blin' my e'e, 
Ye sail be my dearie. 

Ca' the ewes to the knowes, 
Ca' them whare the heather grows, 
Ca' them whare the burnie rowes, 
My bonnie dearie 1 



LXXXIII. 

J&errg J)ae 1 htm t**tf)fn' a ytytthh. 

Tune. — " Lord Breadalbane f s March." 



[Part of this song is old : Sir Hams Nicolas says it does n 
to be in the Museum : let him look again.] 



merry hae I been teethin' a heckle, 

And merry hae I been shapin' a spoon ; 
O merry hae I been cloutin a kettle, 

And kissin' my Katie when a' was done. 
O a' the lang day I ca' at my hammer, 

An' a' the lang day I whistle and sing, 
A' the lang night I cuddle my kimmer, 

An' a' the lang night as happy' s a king. 



Bitter in dool I lickit my winnins, 

O' marrying Bess, to gie her a slave : 
Blest be the hour she cool'd in her linens, 

And blythe be the bird that sings on her grave. 
Come to my arms, my Katie, my Katie, 

An' come to my arms and kiss me again ! 
Drunken or sober, here's to thee, Katie 1 

And blest be the day I did it again. 



164 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



LXXXIX. 

© millie SSrefo'ti. 

Tune.—" Willie brew'd a Peck o' Maul." 



I The scene of this song is Laggan, in Nithsdale, a small estate 
which Nicol bought by the advice of the poet. It was composed in 
memory of the house-heating. "We had such a joyous meeting," 
says Burns, " that Masterton aid I agreed, each in our own way, to 
celebrate the business." The Willie who made the browst was, 
therefore, William Nicol ; the Allan who composed the air, Allan 
Masterton ; and he who wrote this choicest of convivial songs, Robert 
Bums.] 



O, "Willie brew'd a peck o' maut, 
And Rob and Allan came to see : 
Three blither hearts, that lee lang night 
Ye wad na find in Christendie. 

We are na fou, we're no that fon, 

But just a drappie in our e'e ; 
The cock may craw, the daw may daw, 
And aye we'll taste the barley bree. 



Here are we met, three merry boys, 
Three merry boys, I trow, are we ; 

And mony a night we 've merry been, 
And mony mae we hope to be ! 



It is the moon — I ken her horn, 
That's blinkin in the lift sae hie ; 

She shines sae bright to wyle us hame, 
But, by my sooth, she'll wait a wee ! 



Wha first shall rise to gang awa', 

A cuckold, coward loon is he ! 

Wha last beside his chair shall fa', 

He is the king amang us three ! 

We are na fou, we're no that fou, 

But just a drappie in our e'e ; 
The cock may craw, the day may daw, 
And aye we'll taste the barley bree. 



XC. 

WH\)2LKt £ae ge faen 

Tune. — " Killiecrankie" 



{" This song," says Sir Harris Nicolas, " is in tha Mikeum, with- 
out Burns's name." It was composed by Burns on the battle of Kil- 
liecrankie, and sent in his own hand-writing to Johnson : lie puts it 
Into the mouth of a Whig. J 



Whare hae ye been sae braw, lad ? 

Wliare hae ye been sae brankie, O ? 
0, whare hae ye been *ae braw, lad ? 

Cam ye by Killiecrankie, O ? 



A n' ye had been whare I hae been. 
Ye wad na been so cantie, O : 

An' ye had seen what I hae seea. 
On the braes o' Killiecrankie, 0. 



I fought at land, I fought at sea ; 

At hame I fought my auntie, O ; 
But I met the Devil an' Dundee, 

On the braes o'' Killiecrankie, O. 
The bauld Pitcur fell in a furr, 

An' Clavers got a clankie, O; 
Or I had fed an Athole gled, 

On the braes o' Killiecrankie, O. 



XCL 
1 gactJ a toaefti' (Sate .Ycsftreen. 

Air. — " The Blue-eyed Lass." 



[This blue-eyed lass wa= Jean Jeffrey, daughter to the minister of 
Lochmaben: she was "then a rosy girl of seventeen, with winning 
manners and laughing blue eyes. She is now Mrs. Renwick, an.l 
lives in New York.] 



I gaed a waefu' gate yestreen, 

A gate, I fear, I'll dearly rue ; 
I gat my death frae twa sweet een, 

Twa lovely een o' bonnie blue. 
J Twas not her golden ringlets bright ; 

Her lips, like roses, wat wi' dew, 
Her heaving bosom, lily-white — 

It was her een sae bonnie blue. 



She talk'd, she smil'd, my heart she wyl'd, 

She charm'd my soul — I wist na how ; 
And ay the stound, the deadly wound. 

Cam frae her een sae bonnie blue. 
But spare to speak, and spare to speed ; 

Shell aiblins listen to my vow : 
Should she refuse, I'll lay my dead 

To her twa e'en sae bonnie blue. 



XCII. 

Zty $anfc<$ of Ktti). 

Tune. — " Robie donna G orach/ 

[The command which the Comyns held on the Nith was .osc to 
the Douglasses : the Nithsdale power, on the downfal of that proud 
name, was divided ; • part went to the Chartevis's and the better por- 
tion to theMaxwells : the Johnstones afterwards came in fora share, 
and now the Scotts prevail.] 



The Thames flows proudly to the sea, 
Where royal cities stately stand ; 

But sweeter flows the Nith, to me, 

Where Comyns ance had high commar.-l 




I : 



OF ROB F, TIT BURNS. 



If 5 



When shall I see that honoured land, 
That winding stream I love so dear ! 

Must wayward Fortune's adverse hand 
For ever, ever keep me here ? 



How lovely, Nith, thy fruitful vales, 

Where spreading hawthorns gaily bloom ! 
How sweetly wind thy sloping dales, 

Where lambkins wanton thro' the broom ! 
Tho' -wandering, now, must be my doom, 

Far from thy bonnie banks and braes, 
May there my latest'hours consume, 

Amang the friends of early days ! 



XCIII. 

iPtg ijmxt i$ a=bvtakmg, toar TOtte. 

Tune. — " Tam Glen.''* 



[Tarn Glen is the title of an old Scottish song, and older air: of ths 
former all that remains is a portion of the chorus. Burns when he 
wrote it sent it to the Museum.] 



My heart is a-breaking, dear Tittie ! 

Some counsel unto me come len', 
To anger them a' is a pity, 

But what will I do wi' Tarn Glen ? 



I'm thinking wi' sic a braw fellow, 
In poortith I might make a fen' ; 

What care I in riches to wallow, 
If I mauna marry Tarn Glen ? 



There's Lowrie the laird o' Dumeller, 

" Gude day to you, brute !" he comes ben : 

He bi»ags and he blaws o' his siller, 
But when will he dance like Tarn Glen ? 



My minnie does constantly deave me, 
And bids me beware o' young men 

They flatter, she says, to deceive me, 
But wha can think so o' Tarn Glen ? 



My daddie says, gin I'll forsake him, 
He'll gie me guid hunder marks ten : 

But, if it's ordain'd I maun take him, 
wha will I get but Tarn Glen ? 



Yestreen at the valentine's dealing, 
My heart to my mou' gied a stsn 

For thrice I drew ane without failing, 
And thrice it was written — Tarn Glen. 



The last Halloween I was waukin 
My droukit sark-sleeve, as ye ken ; 

His likeness cam up tho house staukin, 
And the very gray breeks o' Tam Glen I 



Come counsel, dear Tittie ! don't tarry — 
I'll gie you my bonnie black hen, 

Gif ye will advise me to marry 
The lad I lo'e dearly, Tam Glen. 



XCIV. 
dFvae tf)e dftten&g ant> Santi I lobe, 

Air. — " Carron Side." 



[Burns sas^s, " I added the four last lines, by way of giving a turn 
to the theme of the poem, such as it is." The rest of the song is suy- 
posed to be from the same hand : the lines are not to be found in 
earlier .-ollections.] 



Frae the friends and land I love 

Driv'n by fortune's felly spite, 
Frae my best belov'd I rove, 

Never mair to taste delight ; 
Never mair maun hope to find 

Ease frae toil, relief frae care : 
When remembrance wracks the mind, 

Pleasures but unveil despair. 



Brightest climes shall mirk appeal', 

Desert ilka blooming shore, 
Till the Fates, nae mair severe, 

Friendship, love, and peace restore 
Till Revenge, wi' Jaurell'd head, 

Bring our banish'd hame again , 
And ilka loyal bonnie lad 

Cross the seas and win his ain. 



uh> 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



XCV. 

&foeet closeg tfu burning. 

Tune. — " C'i'cJgie-bwii-wQad." 



[This is one of several fine songs in honour of Jean Lorimer, of 
Kemmis-hall, Kirkmahoe, who for some time li-ved on the banks of 
Craigie-burn, near Moffat. It was composed in aid of the eloquence 
of a M r. Gillespie, who was in love with her : but it did not prevail, 
for she married an officer of the name of Whelpdalc, lived with hint. 
a month or so : reasons arose on both sides which rendered separation 
necessary ; she then took up her residence in Dumfries, where she had 
aaany opportunities of seeing the poet She lived till latelv.] 



Beyond thee, dearie, beyond thee, dearie, 
And O, to be lying beyond thee ; 

O sweetly, soundly, weel may he sleep 
That's laid in the bed beyond thee ! 



Sweet closes the evening on Craigie-burn-wood, 
And blithely awaukens the morrow ; 

Bat the pride of the spring in the Craigie-burn- 
wood 
Can yield to me nothing but sorrow. 



I see the spreading leaves and flowers, 
I hear the wild birds singing ; 

But pleasure they hae nane for me, 
While care my heart is wringing. 



I canna tell, I maunna tell, 

I darena for your anger ; 
But secret love will break my heart, 

If I conceal it langer. 



I see thee gracefu', straight, and tall, 
I see thee sweet and bonnie ; 

But oh ! what will my torments be, 
If thou refuse thy Johnnie ! 



To see thee in anither's arms, 
In love to lie and languish, 

'Twad be my dead, that will be seen, 
My heart wad burst wi' anguish. 



But, Jeanie, say thou wilt be mine, 

Say thou lo'es nane before me ; 
And a' my days o' life to come 
I'll gratefully adore thee. 

Beyond thee, dearie, beyond thee, dearie, 

And O, to be lying beyond thee ; 
O sweetly, soundly, weel may he sleep 
That's laid in the bed beyond thee ! 



XCVI. 
©odt up gout Ifoabn:. 

Tune. — " Cock up your Beaver.' 



[" Printed," says Sir Harris Nicolas, " in the Musical Museum 
but not with Burns's name." It i." an old song, eked out and 
amended by the poet : all the last vei se, save the last line, is his ; s«t> 
ral of the lines too of the first verse have felt his amending hand : 
he communicated it to the Museum.] 



"When first my brave. Johnnie lad 

Came to this town, 
He had a blue bonnet 

That wanted the crown ; 
But now he has gotten 

A hat and a feather, — 
Hey, brave Johnnie lad, 

Cock up your beaver ! 



Cock up your beaver, 

And cock it fu' sprush, 
We'll over the border 

And gie them a brush ; 
There's somebody there 

We'll teach better behaviour— 
Hey, brave Johnnie lad, 

Cock up your beaver ! 



XCVII. 
JMetfcU t!)tnfe0 mg Sube. 

Tune. — " My Tocher s the Jewel" 



[These verses were written by Burns for the Museum, to mi *Jr 
by Oswald : but he wished them to be sung to a tune called " Lord 
Elcho's favourite," of which he was an admirer.] 



meikle thinks my luveo' my beauty, 

And meikle thinks my luve o' my kin 5 
But little thinks my luve I ken brawlie 

My tocher's the jewel has charms for him. 
It's a' for the apple he'll nourish the tree ; 

It's a' for the hiney he'll cherish the bee ; 
My laddie's sae meikle in luve wi' the siller, 

He canna hae luve to spare for me. 



Your proffer 0' luve's an airl-penny, 

My tocher's the bargain ye wad buy 5 
But an ye be crafty, I am cunnin', 

Sae ye wi' anither your fortune maun try. 
Ye're like to the timmer o' yon rotten wo ;d, 

Ye're like to the timmer o' yon rotten tree, 
Ye'll slip frae me like a knotless thread 

And ye'll crack your credit wi* mae nor me 



OF ROURllT BURNS. 



Ifl7 



XCVIXI. 

©ane ig the IBa»« 

Tune. — " Gudewife count the Lajim." 



fThe air as wi 
i um by Burns. 



as words of this song were furnished to the Mu- 
• The chorus," he says, " is part of an old song."] 



Gane is the day, and mirk's the night, 
But we'll ne'er stray for fau't o' light, 
For ale and brandy's stars and moon, 
And blude-red wine's the rising sun. 
The gudewife count the lawin, 

The lawin, the lawin ; 
Then gudewife count the lawin, 
And bring a coggie mair ! 



There's wealth and ease for gentlemen, 
And simple folk maun fight and fen ; 
But here we're a' in ae accord, 
For ilka man that's drunk's a lord. 



My coggie is a haly pool, 
That heals the wounds o' care and dool ; 
And pleasure is a wanton trout, 
An' ye drink but deep ye'll find him out. 
Then gudewife count the lawin; 

The lawin, the lawin, 
Then gudewife count the lawin, 
And bring a coggie mair ! 



XCIX. 
there'll neber Be ^eace. 

Tune. — " There are few gude fellows when Willie't 



[ The bard was in one of his Jaeobitieal mo^ds when he wrote this 
song. The air is a well-known one, called " There's few gude fellows 
•■'/hen Willie's awa." But of the old words none it is supposed, are 
pitserved.] 



By yon castle wa', at the close of the day, 

I heard a man sing, though his head it was 

gray ; 
And as he was singing the tears down came, 
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. 
The church is in ruins, the state is in jars ; 
Delusions, oppressions, and murderous wars ; 
We darena well say't though we ken wha's to 

blame, 
There'll nevei be peace till Jamie comes hame ! 



My seven braw sons for Jamie drew sword, 
And now T greet round their green beds in the 

yerd. 
It brak the sweet heart of my faithfu' auM 

dame — 
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. 
Now life is a burthen that bows me down, 
Since I tint my bairns, and he tint his crown ; 
But till my last moments my words are the 

same — 
There'll never be peace till Jamie come, 

hame ! 



?^ou) can 1 Be fclgtlje anti glati ? 

Tune. — " The bonnie Lad that's far awa." 1 ' 



[This lamer 
ings of Jean Armour, whi 
discovered by her family.] 



:n, it is said, in allusion 
ner correspondence wit 



how can I be blythe and glad, 
Or how can I gang brisk and braw, 

When the bonnie lad that I lo'e best 
Is o'er the hills and far awa ? 

When the bonnie lad that I lo'e best 
Is o'er the hills and far awa. 



It's no the frosty winter wind, 

It's no the driving drift and snaw ; 

But ay the tear comes in my e'e, 
To think on him that's far awa. 

But ay the tear comes in my e'e, 
To think on him that's far awa. 



My father pat me frae his door, 

My friends they hae disown' d me a , 

But I hae ane will tak' my part, 
The bonnie lad that's far awa. 

But I hae ane will tak' my part, 
The bonnie lad that's far awa. 



A pair o' gloves he gae to me, 

And silken snoods he gae me twa : 

And I will wear them for his sake, 
The bonnie lad that's far awa. 

And I will wear them for his sake, 
The bonnie lad that's far awa 



weary Winter soon will pass, 

And Spring will deed the birken shaw 

And my young babie will be born, 
And lie' 11 be hame that's far awa. 

And my young babie will be born 
And he'll be hame that's far awa. 



108 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



CI. 

$ 150 confer tfiou art gac dpatr. 

Tune. — " / do confess thov. art sae fair." 



I" I do think," said Burns, in allusion to this song, " that I have im- 
pro\-ed the simplicity of the sentiments by giving them a Scottish 
dress." The original song is of great elegance and beauty : it was 
written by Sir Robert Aytoun, secretary to Anne of Denmark, 
Queen of James L] 



I do confess thou art sae fan*, 

I wad been o'er the lugs in love, 
Had I na found the slightest prayer 

That lips could speak thy heart could move. 
I do confess thee sweet, but find 

Thou art sae thriftless o' thy sweets, 
Thy favours are the silly wind, 

That kisses ilka thing it meets. 



See yonder rose-bud, rich in dew, 

Amang its native briers sae coy ; 
How sune it tines its scent and hue 

When pou'd and worn a common toy ! 
Sic fate, ere lang, shall thee betide, 

Tho' thou may gaily bloom awhile ; 
Yet sune thou shalt be thrown aside 

Like ony common weed and vile. 



CII. 

¥on foito messg #toimtams. 

Tune. — " Yon wild mossy Mountains. 



[" This song alludes to a part of my priiate history, which it .is of 
no consequence to the world to know." These are the words of 
Burns: he sent the song to the Musical Museum; the heroine is 
supposed to be the " Nannie," who dwelt near theLugar,] 



Yon wild mossy mountains sae lofty and wide, 
That nurse in their bosom the youth o' the 

Clyde, 
Where the grouse lead their coveys thro' the 

heather to feed, 
And the shepherd tents his flock as he pipes on 
his reed. 
Where tiie grouse lead their coveys thro' the 

heather to feed, 
And "the skepherd tents his flock as he pipes 
on hie reed. 



Not Gowrie's rich valleys, nor Forth's sunny 

shores, 
To me hae the charms o' yon wild, mossy 

moors; 
For there, by a lanely and sequester'd stream, 
Resides a sweet lassie, my thought and my 
dream. 
For there, by a lanely and sequester'd stream, 
Resides a sweet lassie, my thought and my 
dream. 



Amang thae wild mountains shall still be my 

path, 
Ilk stream foaming down its ain green, narrow 

strath ; 
For there, wi' my lassie, the day lang I rove, 
While o'er us unheeded fiee the swift hours o' 
love, 
For there wi' my lassie, the day lang I rove, 
While o'er us unheeded flee the swift hours o' 
love. 



She is not the fairest, altho' she is fair ; 

O' nice education but sma' is her share ; 

Her parentage humble as humble can be ; 

But I lo'e the dear lassie because she lo'es me. 
Her parentage humble as humble can be z 
But I lo'e the dear lassie because she lo'es 
me. 



To beauty what man but maun yield him a 

prize, 
In her armour of glances, and blushes, and 

sighs ? 
And when wit and refinement hae polish'd her 

darts, 
They dazzle our een as they flee to our hearts. 
And when wit and refinement hae polish'd 

her darts, 
They dazzle our een, as they flee to our 
hearts. 



But kindness, sweet kindness, in the fond spark- 
ling e'e, 
Has lustre outshining the diamond to me ; 
And the heart beating love as I'm clasp'd in 

her arms, 
0, these are my lassie's all-conquering charms \ 
And the heart beating love as I'm clasp'd in 

her arms, 
0. these are my lassie's all-conquering 
charms ! 



\ 



OK ROB K FIT BfRNS. 



mu 



cm. 



cv 



fit fe na, $im, tl)g bonnie iface. 

Tune. — " The Maid's complaint." 



[burns found this gong in English attire, bestowed a Scottish 
drees upon it, and published it in the Museum, together with the air 
by Oswald, which is one of his best] 



It is na, Jean, thy bonnie face, 

Nor shape that I admire, 
Altho' thy beauty and thy grace 

Might weel awake desire. 
Something, in ilka part o' thee, 

To praise, to love, I find ; 
But dear as is thy form to me, 

Still dearer is thy mind. 



Nae mair ungenVous wish I hae, 

Nor stronger in my breaH, 
Than if I canna mak thee sae, 

A t least to see thee blest. 
Content am I, if heaven shall givo 

But happiness to thee : 
And as wi' thee I'd wish to live, 

For thee I'd bear to die. 



CIV 



QWjtn % think on i\jz Jiappg Bag*. 



[These verses were in latter years expanded by Burns into a song, 
tor the collection of Thomson : the song will be found in ite pkc* : 
the variations are worthy of preservation.] 



When I think on the happy days 
I spent wi' you, my dearie ; 

And now what lands between us lie, 
How can I be but eerie ! 



How slow ye move, ye heavy hem?. 
As ye were wae and weary I 

It was na sae ye glinted by, 
When I was wi' my deajio. 



SStfjan 5 sleep J twain. 



[This presents another version of song LXV. Vftrintious arr- to 
a poet what changes are in the thoughts of 'i painter, dud ipeik of 
fertility of sentiment in both.] 



Whan I sleep I dream, 
Whan I wauk I'm eerie, 

Sleep I canna get, 

For thinkin' o' my dearie. 



Lanely night comes on, 

A' the house are sleeping, 
I think on the bonnie lad 

That has my heart a keeping. 

Ay waukin O, waukin ay and wearie, 
Sleep I canna get, for thinkin' o* my 
dearie. 



Lanely nights come on, 
A' the house are sleeping, 

I think on my bonnie lad, 
An' I blear my een wi' greetin* ! 
Ay waukin, &c. 



CVI 

5 nmr&er fjate. 



iliese verses are to be found ir. a volume which may be aLu<k» J 
Co without being named, in which many of I3\ut_s'; strain^ scaii 
loos j than these, are to be found.] 



I murder hate by field or flood, 
Tho' glory's name may screen us 

In wars at hame I'll spend my blood, 
Life-giving wars of Venus. 



The deities that I adore 

Are social Feace and Plenty, 

I'm better pleas'd to make one more, 
Than be the death of twenty. 



170 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



CVII. 
<© gutje ®le corner. 



|These verses are in the Museum : the fi»t CW9 are old, the con- 
cluding ere is by Burns.] 



gude ale comes, and gude ale goes, 
Gude ale gars me sell my hose, 
Sell my hose, and pawn my shoon, 
Gude ale keeps my heart aboon. 



I had sax owsen in a pleugh, 
They drew" a' weel eneugh, 
I selTd them a' just ane by ane ; 
Gude ale keeps my heart aboon. 



Gude ale hauds me bare and busy, 
Gars me moop wi' the servant hizzie, 
Stand i' the stool when I hae done, 
Gude ale keeps my heart aboon. 
gude ale comes, &c. 



CVIII. 



[This is an old chaunt, out of which Burns brushed some loose ex- 
pressions, added the third and fourth verses, and sent it to the Mi> 



Robin shure in hairst, 
I shure wi' him, 

Fient a heuk had I, 
Yet I stack by him 



I gaed up to Dunse, 

To warp a wab o' plaiden, 
At his daddie's yett, 

Wha met me but Robin. 



Was na Robin bauld, 

Tho' I was a cotter, 
Play'd me sic a trick, 

And me the eller's dochtcr ? 
Robin shure in hairst, &c. 



Robin promis'd me 

A' my winter vittle ; 
Fient haet he had but three 

Goose feathers and a whittle. 
Robin shure in hairst, &c. 



CIX. 
Bonnie ip?g 



[A fourth verse makes the moon a witness to tau eadeaxaipnte of 
these lovers : but that planet sees more indiscreet matters than It is 
right to describe, j 



As I came in by our gate end, 
As day was waxin' weary, 

O wha came tripping down the street, 
But Bonnie Peg, my dearie ! 



Her air sae sweet, and shape completer 
Wi' nae proportion wanting ; 

The Queen of Love did never move 
Wi' motion mair enchanting. 



Wi* linked hands, we took the sands 

A-down yon winding river ; 
And, oh ! that hour and broomy bower, 

Can I forget it ever ? 



ex. 

^ntieen to j)ou t l&tmmer. 



"This song in other days was a controversial one, and contained 
some sarcastic allusions to Mother Rome and her brood of seven sa- 
, five of whom were illegitimate. Burns changed the meaiv 
, and published his altered version in the Museum.] 



Gude en to you, Kimmer, 

And how do ye do ? 
Hiccup, quo' Kimmer, 
The better that I'm fou. 

We're a' noddin, nid nid noddin, 
We're a' noddin, at our house at hame 



Kate sits i' the neuk, 

Suppin h en broo ; 
Deal tak Kate 

An' she be na noddin too ! 
We're a' noddin, ^re- 



How's a' wi' you, Kimmer, 
And how do ye fare ? 

A pint o' the best o't, 
And twa pints mair. 

We're a' noddin. &a 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



171 



How's a' wi' you, Kimmer, 
And how do ye thrive ; 

How many bairns hae ye ? 
Q,uo' Kimmer I hae five. 
We're a' noddin, &c. 



Are they a' Johnie's ? 

Eh ! atweel no : 
Twa o' them were gotten 

When Johnie was awa. 
We're a' noddin, &c. 



Cats like milk, 

And dogs like broo ; 
Lads like lasses weel, 

An I lasses lads too. 

Wa're a' noddin, kc 



CXI. 

&&, ©f)lorte, since it man na fce. 

Tune. — Ci Major Graham" 



[Sir Harris Nicolas found these lines on Chloris among the papers 
of Burns, and printed diem in his late edition of the poet's workB.] 



Ah, Chloris, since it may.na be, 
That thou of love wilt hear ; 

If from the lover thou maun flee, 
Yet let the friend be dear. 



Altho' I love my Chloris mair 
Than ever tongue could tell ; 

My passion I will ne'er declare, 
I'll say, I wish thee well. 



Tho' a' my daily care thou art, 
And a' my nightly dream, 

I'll hide the struggle in my heart, 
And say it is esteem. 



CXII. 

<5) gain ge mg SJmle. 

Tune. — u Eppie Maenad." 



\" Published in the Museum," says Sir Harris Nicolas, " witliout 
any name." Burns corrected some lines in the old song, which ttaxl 
more wit, he said, than decency, and added others, and s-mic !u.- 
amended version to Johnson, j 



O saw ye my dearie, my Eppie M'Nab ? 
saw ye my dearie;, my Eppie M'Nab ? 
She's down in the yard, she's kissin' the laird„ 
She winna come hame to her ain Jock Bab. 
come thy ways to me, my Eppie M'Nab ! 
O come thy ways to me, my Eppie M'Nab ! 
Whate'er thou hast done, be it late, be it soon, 
Thou's welcome again to thy ain Jock Rab. 



What says she, my dearie, my Eppie M'Nab . 
What s&ys she, my dearie, my Eppie M'Nab ? 
She lets thee to wit, that she has thee forgot, 
And for ever disowns thee, her ain Jock Rab. 
O had I ne'er seen thee, my Eppie M'Nab ! 
O had I ne'er seen thee, my Eppie M'Nab! 
As light as the air, and fause as thou's fair, 
Thou's broken the heart o' thy ain Jock Rab. 



CXIII. 
2&f)a i$ tjjat at mg Uofoer=tiooi\ 

Tune. — " Lass an I come near thee." 



[The " Auld man and the widow" in Ramsay's collection is said, 
by Gilbert Burns, to have suggested this song to his Irother; it first 
appeared in the Museum.] 



Wha is that at my bower-door ? 

O, wha is it but Findlay ? 
Then gae your gate, ye'se nae be here 

Indeed, maun I, quo' Findlay. 
What mak ye sae like a thief? 

come and see, quo' Findlay ; 
Before the morn ye'll work mischief; 

Indeed will I, quo' Findlay. 



Gif I rise and let you in ? — 

Let me in, quo.' Findlay ; 
Ye'll keep me waukin wi' your din ; 

Indeed will I, quo' Findlay. 
In my bower if you should stay ? 

Let me stay, quo' Findlay ; 
I fear ye'll bide till break o 1 day ; 

Indeed will I, quo 1 Findlay 



172 



THE i'OETICAL WORKS 



Here this night if ye remain; — 

I'll remain, quo' Findlay ; 
I dread ye'll learn the gate again ; 

Indeed will I, quo' Findlay. 
What may pass within this bo^er,— 

Let it pass, qiTo' Findlay ; 
Ye maun conceal till your last hour j 

Indeed will I, quo' Findlay ! 



CXIV. 
S^hat can a goting 2,a«sg{c. 

Tune. — " What can a young lassie do ioi' an auld 



[In the old strain, which partly suggested this song, the htn.iue 
threatens only to adorn her husband's brows : Burns proposes a Eys- 
tem of domestic annoyance to break his heart.] 



What can a young lassie, what shall a young 
lassie, 

What can a young lassie do wi' an auld man ? 
Bad luck on the pennie that tempted my minnie 

To sell her poor Jenny for siller an' Ian' ! 
Had luck on the pennie that tempted my minnie 

To sell her poor Jenny for siller an' Ian' ! 



He's always compleenin' frae mornin' to e'enin, 
He hosts and he hirples the weary day lang ; 

T T e's doyl't and he's dozin', his bluid it is frozen, 
O, dreary's the night wi' a crazy auld man ! 

lie's doyl't an : he's dozin', his bluid it is frozen, 
O, dreary's the night wi' a crazy auld man ! 



He hums and he hankers, he frets and he cankers, 
I never can please him, do a' that I can ; 

He's peevish and jealous of a' the young fellows: 
0, dool on the day I met wi' an auld man ! 

He's peevish and jealous of a' the young fellows: 
O, dool on the day I met wi' an auld man ! 



My auld auntie Katie upon me takes pity, 

I'll do my endeavour to follow her plan ; 
I'll cross him, and wrack him, until I heart- 
break him, 
And then his auld brass wiil buy me a new 
pan. 
I'll cross him, and wrack him, until I heart- 
break him, 
And then his auld brass will buy me a new 
pan. 



CXV. 
Z%t bomm tote ^&tng. 

Tune. — " Bonnie wee thing." 



[" Composed," says the poet, "on my little idol, tiie tiiaimni s 
lovely Davies."] 



Bonnie wee thing, cannie wee thing, 

Lovely wee thing, wert thou mine, 
I wad wear thee in my bosom, 

Lest my jewel I should tine. 
Wishfully I look and languish 

In that bonnie face o' thine ; - 
And my heart it stounds wi' anguish, 

Lest my wee thing be na mine. 



Wit, and grace, and love, and beauty 

In ae constellation shine ; 
To adore thee is my duty, 

Goddess o' this soul o' mine ! 
Bonnie wee thing, cannie wee thing, 

Lovely wee thing, wert thou mine, 
I wad wear thee in my bosom, 

Lest my jewel I should tine ! 



CXVI 
£be ttthcr iiiXovn. 

To a Highland Air. 



[" The tunc of tnis song," says Burns, " is originally from uw 
High.la.nos. I have heard a Gaelic song to it, which was not by ajij 
means a lady's song." " It occurs," says Sir Harris Nicolas, " in th< 
Museum, without the name of Burns." It was sent in the poet's 
own hand-writing to Johnson, and is believed to be his composition.] 



The tither morn, 
When I forlorn, 

Aneath an oak sat moaning, 
I did na trow, 
I'd see my Jo, 

Beside me, gain the gloaming- 
But he sae trig, 
Lap o'er the rig, 

And dawtingly did cheer me, 
When I, what reck. 
Did least expec', 

To see my lad so rear me. 



OF ROB Kir 1 BURNS. 



173 



His bonnet he, 

A thought ajee, 
Gock'd sprush when first he clasp'd me ; 

And I, I wat, 

Wi' fainness grat, 
While in his grips he press'd me. 

Deil tak' the war ! 

I late and air, 
Hae wish'd since Jock departed ; 

But now as glad 

I'm wi' my lad, 
As short syne broken-hearted. 



Fu' aft at e'en 

Wi' dancing keen, 
When a' were blythe and merry, 

I car'd na by, 

Sae sad was I 
In absence o' my dearie. 

But, praise be blest, 

My mind's at rest, 
I'm happy wi' my Johnny : 

At kirk and fair, 

I'se ay be there, 
And be as canty' s ony. 



CXVII. 

Tune.—" Rory Ball's Port." 



[Kelieved to relate to the poet's parting with Clarinda. " These 
exquisitely affecting stanzas," says Scott, " contain the essence of &, 
thousand love tales." They are in the Museum.] 



Ae fond kiss, and then we sever ; 
Ae fareweel, and then for ever ! 
Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee, 
Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee. 
Who shall say that fortune grieves him 
While the star of hope she leaves him ? 
Me, nae cheerfu' twinkle lights me ; 
Dark despair around benights me. 



I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy, 
Naething could resist my Nancy; 
But to see her, was to love her ; 
Love hut her, and love for ever. — 
Had we never lov'd sae kindly, 
Had we never lov'd sae blindly, 
Never met— or never parted, 
We had ne'ei been broken-hearted. 



Fare thee weel, thou first and fairest ! 
Fare thee weel, thou best and dearest J 
Thine be ilka joy and treasure, 
Peace, enjoyment, love, and pleasure ! 
Ae fond kiss, and then we sever ; 
Ae farewell, alas ! for ever ! 
Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee, 
Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee \ 



CXVI1T 

Sobdi) 33ab(e». 



Tune. — " Miss Muh:' 



[Written for the Museum, in honour of the witty, the handaorrtr, 
die lovely and unfortunate Miss Davies.] 



how shall I, unskilfu', try 

The poet's occupation, 
The tunefu' powers, in happy hours, 

That whispers inspiration ? 
Even they maun dare an effort mair, 

Than aught they ever gave us, 
Or they rehearse, in equal verse, 

The charms o' lovely Davies. 
Each eye it cheers, when °he appears, 

Like Phoebus in the r> ming, 
When past the shower, and ev'ry flower 

The garden is adorning. 
As the wretch looks o'er Siberia's shore, 

When winter-bound the wave is ; 
Sae droops our heart when we maun part 

Frae charming lovely Davies. 



Her smile's a gift, frae 'boon the lift, 

That maks us mair than princes ; 
A scepter'd hand, a king's command, 

Is in her darting glances: 
The man in arms, 'gainst female charms, 

Even he her willing slave is; 
He hugs his chain, and owns the reign 

Of conquering, lovely Davies. 
My muse to dream of such a theme, 

Her feeble pow'rs surrender; 
The eagle's gaze alone surveys 

The sun's meridian splendour : 
I wad in vain essay the strain, 

The deed too daring brave is ! 
I'll drap the lyre, and mute admire 

The charms o' lovely Davies. 



\74 



THE FOEilCiL WOKRS 



CXIX. 

Tune. — " The weary Pund o' Tow." 



[" This song," says Sir Harris Nicolas, "is in the Musical Mu- 
seum; but it is not attributed to Burns. Mr. Allan Cunningham 
does not state upon what authority he hasassigned it to Burns." The 
critical knight might have, if he had pleased, stated similar objections 
'o many songs which he took without scruple from my edition, where 
they were claimed for Burns, for the first time, and on good autho- 
rity. I however, as it happens, did not claim the song wholly for the 
Doet: 1 said " the idea of the song is old, and perhaps some of the 
irords." It was sent by Burns to the Museum, and in his own hand- 
writing.] 



The weary pund, the weary pund, 

The weary pund o' tow ; 
I think my wife will end her life 

Before she spin her tow. 
I bought my wife a stane o' lint 

As gude as e'er did grow; 
And a' that she has made o' that, 

Is ae poor pund o' tow. 



There sat a bottle in a bole, 

Beyont the ingle low, 
And ay she took the tither souk, 

To drouk the stowrie tow. 



Quoth I, for shame, ye dirty dame, 
Gae spin your tap o' tow ! 

She took the rock, and wi' a knock 
She brak it o'er my pow. 



At last her feet — I sang to see c— 
Gaed foremost o'er the knowc ; 
And or I wad anither jad, 
I'll wallop in a tow. 

The weary pund, the weary pund, 

The weary pund o' tow ! 
I think my wife will end her life 
Before she spin her tow. 



cxx. 

Naefcofcg. 

Tune. — " Naebody." 



[Bunn had built his house at Ellisl&nd, sowed his first crop, the 
woman he loved was at his side, and hope was high; no wonder 
that he indulged in this independent strain.] 



I ii a e a wife o' my am - 
I'll partake wi* naebody ; 

I'll tak cuckold frae nane, 
I'll gie cuckold to naebody. 



I hae a penny to spend, 
There — thanks to naebody . 

I hae ri ae thing to lend, 
I'll borrow frae naebody. 



I am naebody's lord — 

I'll be slave to naebody ; 
I hae a guid braid sword, 

I'll tak dunts frae naebody, 
I'll be merry and free, 

I'll be sad for naebody ; 
Naebody cares for me, 

I care for naebody. 



CXXI. 

<&, for &M«antMfoenl2j» ^Tam 1 

Tune. — " The Moudiewort.'" 



[In his memoranda on this song in the Museum, Burns >ays simply, 
" This song is mine." The air for a century before had to bear the 
burthen of very ordinary words.] 



An O, for ane-and-twenty, Tarn, 

An' hey, sweet ane-and-twenty, Tarn. 

I'll learn my kin a rattlin' sang, 
An I saw ane-and-twenty, Tarn. 



They snool me sair, and baud me down, 
And gar me look like bruntie, Tarn ! 

But three short years will soon wheel roun' 
And then comes ane-and-twenty, Tarn. 



A gleib o' Ian', a claut o' gear, 
Was left me by my auntie, Tarn ; 

At kith or kin I need na spier, 
An I saw ane-and-twenty, Tain. 



They'll hae me wed a wealthy coof, 
Tho' I myseP hae plenty, Tarn; 
But hear'st thou, laddie — there's my loof — 
I'm thine at ane-and-twenty, Tarn. 
An O, for ane-and-twenty, Tarn ! 

An hey, sweet ane-and-twenty, Tara i 
I'll learn my kin a rattlin' sang, 
An I saw ane -and- twenty, Tarn. 




N a : - 

I Tnae a wife o' my am , 
I'll partake wi 1 aae-"body ; 
I tiae a £ui<3 braid sword, 
I'll Lak-'dunti frae n 



OF KOIJKIIT BURNS, 



175 



CXXII 
ltenmure'0 on ano atoa. 

Tune. — " O Kenmure 'a on and awa, Willie." 



(The second and third, and concluding verses of this Jacobite 
Mrain were written by Burns : the whole was sent in his own hand- 
g to the Museum, J 



Kenmure's on and awa, Willie ! 

Kenmure's on and awa! 
And Kenmure's lord's the bravest lord, 

That ever Galloway saw. 



Success to Kenmure's band, Willie ! 

Success to Kenmure's band ; 
There's no a heart that fears a Whig, 

That rides by Kenmure's hand. 



Here's Kenmure's health in wine, Willie ! 

Here's Kenmure's health in wine; 
There ne'er was a coward o' Kenmure's blude, 

Nor yet o' Gordon's line. 



Kenmure's lads are men, Willie ! 

Kenmure's lads are men ; 
Their hearts and swords are metal true — 

And that their faes shall ken. 



They'll live or die wi' fame, Willie ! 

They'll live or die wi' fame ; 
But soon wi' sounding victorie, 

May Kenmure's lord comehame. 

VI. 

Here's him that's far awa, Willie ! 

Here's him that's far awa ; 
And here's the flower that I love best- 

The rose that's like the snaw ! 



CXXIII. 
JUp KtaHUr Satstste. 

Tune.—" The Collier Laddie. 1 



[The Collier Laddie was communicated by Burns, and in his 
lftasd-writing, to the Museum: it is chiefly his own composition, 
though colo-cred by an older strain.] 



Where live ye, my bonnie lass ? 
An' tell me what they ca' ye ; 



My name, she says, is Mistress Jean, 
And I follow the Collier Laddie. 

My name, she says, is Mistress Jean, 
And I follow the Collier Laddie. 



See you not yon hills and dales, 
The sun shines on sae brawlie ! 

They a' are mine, and they shall be thine, 
Gin ye'll leave your Collier Laddie. 

They a' are mine, and they shall be thine, 
Gin ye'll leave your Collier Laddie. 



Ye shall gang in gay attire 
Weel buskit up sae gaudy; 

And ane to wait on every hand, 
Gin ye'll leave your Collier Laddie. 

And ane to wait on every hand, 
Gin ye'll leave your Collier Laddie. 



Tho'ye had a' the sun shines on, 
And the earth conceals sae lowly ; 

I wad turn my back on you and it a', 
And embrace my Collier Laddie. 

I wad turn my back on you and it a', 
And embrace my Collier Laddie. 



I can win my five pennies in a day, 
And spent at night fu' brawlie; 

And make my bed in the Collier's neuk 
And lie down wi' my Collier Laddie. 

And make my bed in the Collier's neuk, 
And lie down wi' my Collier Laddie. 



Luve for luveis the bargain for me, 

Tho' the wee cot-house should haud me ; 

And the world before me to win my bread. 
And fair fa' my Collier Laddie. 

And the world before me to win my bread, 
And fair fa' my Collier Laddie. 



CXXIV. 



[These verses were written by Bums for the Museum : th« 
Maxwells of Terreagles are the lineal descendants of toe Earls ol 
Nithsdale.] 



The noble Maxwells and their powers 

Are coming o'er the border, 
And they'll gae bigg Terreagle's towers. 

An' set them a' in order 



176 



THE POETICAL WOKKS 



And they declare Terreagles fair, 
For their abode they chuse it ; 

There's no a heart in a' the land, 
But's lighter at the news o't, 



Tho' stars in skies may disappear, 

And angry tempests gather ; 
The happy hour may soon he near 

That brings us pleasant weather: 
The weary night o' care and grief 

May hae a joyful morrow ; 
So dawning day has brought relief — 

Fareweel our night o' sorrow ! 



cxxv 

31 g $ roag a=fcanti?ring. 

Tune. — " Rtnn Meudial me Mhealtadh" 



[The original song in the Gaelic language was translated for 
Bums by an Inverness-shire lady ; he turned it into verse, and sent 
It to the Museum. J 



As I was a-wand'ring ae midsummer e'enin', 
The pipers and youngsters were making their 
game; 
Amang them I spied my faithless fause lover, 
Which bled a' the wounds o' my dolour 
again. 
Yv^eel since he has left me, may pleasure gae wi' 
him ; 
I may be distress" d, but I winna complain ; 
I flatter my fancy I may get anither, 

My heart it shall never be broken for ane. 



I couldna get sleeping till dawnin for greetin', 
The tears trickled down like the hail and the 
rain: 

Had I na got greetin', my heart wad a broken, 
For, oh! lovefoisaken's a tormenting pain. 



Although he has left me for greed o' the siller, 

I dinna envy him the gains he can win ; 
I rather wad bear a' the lade o' my sorrow 

Than ever hae acted sae faithless to him. 
Weel, since he has left me, may pleasure gae 
wi' him, 

1 may be distress'd, but I winna complain ; 
I natter my fancy I may get anither, 

My heart it shall never be broken for ane. 



CXXVI. 

53C0S5 anti \jtx j&pimung-to!)?rf* 

Tune. — " The sweet lass thai Icfes me." 



[There are several variations of this song, but they neither a;1o« 
the sentiment, nor afford matter for quotation.] 



O leeze me on my spinning-wheel, 
O leeze me on the rock and reel; 
Frae tap to tae that deeds me bien, 
And haps me fiel and warm at e'en ! 
I'll set me down and sing and spin, 
While laigh descends the simmer sun, 
Blest wi' content, and milk and meal — 
O leeze me on my spinning-wheel 1 

n. 

On ilka hand the burnies trot, 
And meet below my theekit cot ; 
The scented birk and hawthorn white, 
Across the pool their arms unite, 
Alike to screen the birdie's nest, 
And little fishes' caller rest : 
The sun blinks kindly in the biel', 
Where blithe I turn my spinning-wheel. 



On lofty aiks the cushats wail, 
And Echo cons the doolfu' tale ; 
The lintwhites in the hazel braes, 
Delighted, rival ither's lays : 
The craik amang the clover hay, 
The paitrick whirrin o'er the ley, 
The swallow jinkin round my shiel, 
Amuse me at my spinning-wheel. 



Wi' sma' to sell, and less to buy, 
Aboon distress, below envy, 
wha wad leave this humble state, 
For a' the pride of a' the great ? 
Amid their flaring, idle toys, 
Amid their cumbrous, dinsome joys, 
Can they the peace and pleasure feel 
Of Bessy at her spinning-wheel ? 



CXXVIL 

21 ufa rot 11 benture tn. 

Time.—" The Pone." 



\" The Posie is my torn position," says Burns, in a letter ei Thon> 
son. " The a'r was wken down from Mrs. Burns' voix." It i?ns 
first printed in the Museum. J 



O luve will venture in 

Where it dauma weel be seen ; 
luve will venture in 

Where wisdom aince has been 



OF ROBERT HHRNS 



177 



Bui I will down you river rove. 

Among the wood sae green- - 
And o' to pu' a posio 

To my ain dear May. 



The primrose I will pu', 

The firstling o' the year, 
And I will pu' the pink, 

The emblem o' my dear, 
For she's the pink o' womankind, 

And blooms without a peer — 
And a' to be a posie 

To my ain dear May. 



I'll pu' the budding rose, 

When Phoebus peeps in view, 
For it's like a baumy kiss 

O' her sweet bonnie mou' ; 
The hyacinth's for constancy, 

Wi' its unchanging blue — 
And a' to be a posie 

To my ain dear May 



The lily it is pure, 

And the lily it is fair. 
And in her lovely bosom 

I'll place the lily there ; 
The daisy's for simplicity, 

And unaffected air — 
And a' to be a posie 

To my ain dear May. 



The hawthorn I will pu' 

Wi' its locks o' siller gray, 
Where, like an aged man, 

It stands at break of day. 
But the songster's nest within the bush 

I winna tak away — 
And a' to be a posie 

To my ain dear May. 



The woodbine I will pu' 

When the e'ening star is near, 
And the diamond draps o' dew, 

Shall be her e'en sae clear ; 
The violet's for modesty 

Which weel she fa's to wear. 
And a' to be a posie 

To my ain dear May. 



I'll tie the posie round, 

Wi' the silken band o' hive. 
And I'll place it in her breast. 

Ad d I'll swear by a' above. 
That to my latest draught of life 

The band shall ne'er remove. 
And this will be a posie 

To my ain dear May. 



CXXVIII. 

©ountrg Eaggie. 

Tune. — " The Country Lass." 



I A manuscript copy before me, in the poet's hand-writing , jtrc 
sents two or three immaterial variations of this dramatic son£ ' 



In simmer, when the hay was mawn, 

And corn wav'd green in ilka field, 
While claver blooms white o'er the lea, 

And roses blaw in ilka bield ; 
Blithe Bessie in the milking shiel. 

Says — I'll be wed, come o't what will j 
Out spak a dame in wrinkled eild — 

O' guid advisement comes nae ilL 



It's ye hae wooers mony ane, 

And, lassie, ye're but young ye ken ; 
Then wait a wee, and cannie wale, 

A routhie butt, a routhie ben : 
There's Johnie o' the Buskie-glen, 

Fu' is his barn, fu' is his byre ; 
Tak this frae me, my bonnie hen, 

It's plenty beets the luver's fire. 



For Johnie o' the Buskie-glen, 

I dinna care a single fiie ; 
He lo'es sae weel his craps and kye, 

He has nae luve to spare for me : 
But blithe 1 s the blink o' Robie's e'e, 

And weel I wat he lo'es me dear: 
Ae blink 0" him i wad nae gie 

For Buskie-glen and a' his gear. 

IV. 

O thoughtless lassie, life's a faught; 

The canniest gate, the strife is sair ; 
But ay fu' han't is fechtin best, 

An hungry care's an unco care : 
But some will spend, and some will spare £ 

An' wilfu' folk maun hae their will ; 
Syne as ye brew, my maiden fair, 

Keep mind that ye maun drink the yilL 



O, gear will buy me rigs o' land, 

And gear will buy me sheep and kye ; 
But the tender heart o' leesome luve, 

The gowd and siller canna buy ; 
We may be poor — Robie and I, 

Light is the burden luve lays on : 
Content and luve brings peace and joy- 

What mair hae queens upon a throne f 



178 



THE POAflCAL WORKS 



cxxrx. 

A Gaelic Air. 



The name of the heroine of this s on g was at first Rabina: but 
Johnson, the publisher, alarmed at admitting something new into 
verse, caused Eliza to be substituted; which was a positive fraud, 
for Rabina was a real lady, and a lovely one, and Eliza one of air.] 



Tu rn again, thou fair Eliza, 

Ae kind blink before we part, 
Rew on thy despairing lover ! 

Canst thou break his faithfu' heart ? 
Turn again, thou fair Eliza ; 

If to love thy heart denies, 
For pity hide the cruel sentence 

Under friendship's kind disguise! 



Thee, dear maid, hae I offended ? 

The offence is loving thee : 
Canst thou wreck his peace for ever, 

Wha for thine wad gladly die ? 
While the life beats in my bosom, 

Thou shalt mix in ilka throe ; 
Turn again, thou lovely maiden, 

Ae sweet smile on me bestow. 



Not the bee upon the blossom, 

In the pride o' sunny noon ; 
Not the little sporting fairy, 

All beneath the simmer moon ; 
Not the poet, in the moment 

Fancy lightens in his e'e, 
Kens the pleasure, feels the rapture,- 

That thy presence gies to me 



cxxx. 

¥e Satofito-3 &S Name 

Tune. — " Ye Jacobites by nameP 



I" Ye Jacobites by Name" appeared for the first time in the Ma 
eum : it was sent in the hand-writing of Burns.] 



Ye Jacobites by name, give an ear, give an ear ; 
Ye Jacobites by name, give an ear ; 
Ye Jacobites by name, 

Your fautes I will proclaim, 

Your doctrines I maim blame — 
You shall hear. 



What is right and what is wrang, by the law, by 
the law? 
What is right and what is wrang by ine .aw ? 
What is right and what is wrang ? 
A short sword and a lang, 
A weak arm, and a Strang 
For to draw. 



What makes heroic strife, fam'd afar, fam'd 
afar ? 
What makes heroic strife fam'd afar ? 
What makes heroic strife ? 
To whet th' assassin's knife, 
Or hunt a parent's life 
Wi* bluidie war. 



Then let your schemes alone, in the state, in 
the state; 
Then let your schemes alone in the state ; 
Then let your schemes alone, 
Adore the rising sun, 

And leave a man undone 
To his fate. 



CXXXI. 

Ofy* 3Sanfcg of Uoon. 

FIRST VERSION. 



[An Ayrshire legend says the heroine of this affecting song was 
Miss Kennedy, of Dalgarrock, a young creature, beautiful and ac- 
complished, who fell a victim to her love for her kinsman, McUoual, 
of Logan.] 



Ye flowery banks o' bonnie Doon, 
How can ye bloom sae fair ; 

How can ye chant, ye little birds, 
And I sae fu' o' care ! 



Thou'll break my heart, thou bonnie bird, 

That sings upon the bough ; 
Thou minds me o' the happy days 

When my fause love was true 



Thou'll break my heart, thou bonnie uuvi, 

That sings beside thy mate ; 
For sae I sat, and sae I sang, 

And wist na o' my fate. 



OF ROBKRT BURNS. 



179 



Aft hae I rov'd by bonnie Doon, 
To see the woodbine twine, 

And ilka bird sang o' its love; 
And sae did I o' mine. 



Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose, 
Frae afF its thorny tree ; 

And my fause luver staw the rose, 
But left the thorn wi 1 me. 



CXXXTI. 

SECOND VERSION. 

Tune. — " Caledonian Hunt's Delight." 1 



[Burns injured somewhat the simplicity cf the song by adapting it 
to a new air, accidently composed by an amateur, who was directed, if 
he desired to create a Scottish air, to keep his ringers to the black keys 
of the harpsichord, and preserve rhythm.] 



Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon, 

How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair ; 
How can ye chant, ye little birds, 

And I sae weary, fu' o' care ! 
Thou'lt break my heart, thou warbling bird, 

That wantons thro' the flowering thorn : 
Thou minds me o' departed joys, 

Departed — never to return I 



Aft hae I rov'd by bonnie Doon, 

To see the rose and woodbine twine ; 
And ilka bird sang o' its luve, 

And fondly sae did I o' mine. 
Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose, 

Fu' sweet upon its thorny tree ; 
And my fause luver stole my rose, 

But, ah ! he left the thorn wi' me. 



CXXXIII. 



Tune.— K The eight men of Moidart.'' 



[The person who is raised to the disagreeable elevation of heroine 
of this sctrj, was, it is said, a farmer's wife of the old school of domes- 
Uc care and uncleanness, who lived nigh the poet, at Ellisland.] 



Willie "Wastle dwalt on Tweed, 

The spot they call'd it Linkum-doddie, 

Willie was a wabster gnid, 

Cou'd stown a clue wi' onie bodie , 



He had a wife was dour and din, 

Tinkler Madgie was her mitiier < 
Sic a wife as Willie had, 

1 wad nae gie a button for her. 



She has an e'e — she has but ane, 

The cat has twa the very colour ; 
Five rusty teeth, forbye a stump, 

A clapper-tongue wad deave a miller : 
A whiskin' beard about her mou', 

Her nose and chin they threaten ither- 
Sic a wife as Willie had, 

I wad nae gie a button for her. 



She's bow hough'd, she's hem shinn'd, 

A limpin' leg, a hand-breed shorter; 
She's twisted right, she's twisted left, 

To balance fair in ilka quarter : 
She has a hump upon her breast, 

The twin o' that upon her shouther— 
Sic a wife as Willie had, 

I wad nae gie a button for her 



Auld baudrans by the ingle sits, 

An' wi' her loof her face a-washin' ; 
But Willie's wife is nae sae trig, 

She dights her grunzie wi' a hushion 
Her walie nieves like midden-creels, 

Her face wad fyle the Logan-Water- 
Sic a wife as Willie had, 

I wad nae gie a button for her. 



CXXXIV. 

Satfi iftarg <&m. 

Tune. — " Craigtowris growing." 



[The poet sent this song to the Museum in his own cand-writing 
yet part of it is believed to be old : how much cannot be well knowu 
with such skill has he made his interpolations and changes. J 



O, Lady Mary Ann 

Looks o'er the castle wa', 
She saw three bonnie boys 

Playing at the ba' ; 
The youngest he was 

The flower amang them a\ 
My bonnie laddie's young, 

But he's growin' yet. 



ISO 



THE I'OETICAL WOKKS 



O fathei ! O father ! 

An' ye think it fit, 
We'll send him a year 

To the college yet: 
We'll sew a green ribhon 

Round about his hat. 
And that will let them ken 

He's to marry yet. 



Lady Mary Ann 

Was a flower i' the dew, 
Sweet was its smell, 

And bonnie was its hue ; 
And the langer it blossom'd 

The SAveeter it grew ; 
For the lily in the bud 

Will be bonnier yet. 



Young Charlie Cochran 

Was the sprout of an aik ; 
Bonnie and bloumin' 

And straught was its make : 
The sun took delight 

To shine for its sake, 
And it will be the brag 

O' the forest vet. 



The simmer is gane, 

When the leaves they were green, 
And the days are awa 

That we hae seen ; 
But far better days 

I trust will come again, 
For my bonnie laddie's young, 

But he's growin' yet. 



cxxxv. 

j&url) a parcel of l&ogueg tn a Nation. 

Tune. — " A parcel of rogues in a nation." 



i This song was written by Burns in a moment of honest indi na- 
tion at the northern scoundrels who sold to those of the south the in- 
dependence of Scotland, at the time of the Union.] 



Fareweel to a' our Scottish fame, 

Fareweel our ancient glory, 
Fareweel even to the Scottish name, 

Sae fam'd in martial Bfccry. 
Now Sark rins o'er the Sol way sands, 

And Tweed rins to the ocean, 
To mark where England's province stands-^ 

Such a parcel of rogues in a nation. 



What force or guile could not subdue, 

Thro' many warlike ages, 
Is wrought now by a coward few, 

For hireling traitors' wages. 
The English steel we could disdain, 

Secure in valour's station ; 
But English gold has been our bane — 

Such a parcel of rogues in a nation. 



would, or I had seen the day 

That treason thus could fell us, 
My auld gray head had lien in clay, 

Wi' Bruce and loyal Wallace ! 
But pith and power, till my last hour. 

I'll mak' this declaration ; 
We're bought and sold for English gold- 

Such a parcel of rogues in a nation. 



CXXXVL 

f jje ©arlc of IMlghurn 2$vaeg, 

Tune. — " Kellyburn Braes." 






[Of this song Mrs. Burns said to Cromek, when running her firmer 
over the long list of lyrics which her husband had written or 
amended for the Museum, " Robert gae this one a terrible brush 
ing." A considerable portion of the old still remains.] 



There lived a carle on Kellyburn braes, 
(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme), 

And he had a wife was the plague o 1 his days ; 
And the thyme it is wither' d, and rue is in 
prime. 



Ae day as the carle gaed up the lang gien, 
(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme), 

He met wi' the devil ; says, " How do yow fen ?** 
And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in 
prime 



" I've got a bad wife, sir ; that's a' my complaint; 

(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme), 
For, saving your presence, to her ye're a saint ; 

And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in 
prime.' ' 



" It's neither your stot nor your staig I shall 

crave, 

(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme), • 

But gie me your wife, man, for her I must have. 

And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in 

prime." 



OF ROliKKT BURNS. 



181 



u welcome, most kindly," the blythe carle said, 

(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme), 
" But if ye can match her, ye' re waur nor ye' re 
ca'd, 
And the thyme it is withefd, and rue is in 
prime." 

VI. 

The devil has got the auld wjfe on his back ; 

(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme), 
And, like a poor pedlar, he's carried his pack ; 

And the thymeit is wither'd, and rue is in prime. 



He's carried her hame to his ain hallan-door; 

(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme), 
Syne bade her gae in, for a b — h and a w — e, 

And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime. 



Then straight he makes fifty, the pick o' his band, 
(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme), 

Turn out on her guard in the clap of a hand ; 
And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime . 



The carlin gaed thro' them like ony wud bear, 
(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme), 

Whate'er she gat hands on cam near her nae 
mair ; 
And the thyme it is wither' d, and rue is in prime. 



A reekit wee devil looks over the wa' ; 

(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme), 
" 0, help, master, help, or she'll ruin us a', 

And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in 
prime." 

XI. 

The devil he swore by the edge o' his knife, 
(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme), 

He pitied the man that was tied to a wife ; 
And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime . 



The devil he swore by the kirk and the bell, 
(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme), 

He was not in wedlock, thank heav'n,but in hell; 
And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime. 



Then Satan has travelled again wi' his pack ; 

(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme), 
. And to her auhi husband he's carried her back: 
And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime. 



" I hae been a devil the feck o' my life ; 

(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme), 
But ne'er was in hell, till I met wi' a wife ; 

And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in 
prime. " 



C XXXVII. 

^ocfceg'g ta'cn t&e parting 3XI&J. 

Tune. — " Jockey s to? en the parting tries." 

[Burns, when he sent this song to the Museum, /aid nothing of I'.r 
rigin : and he is silent about it in his memoranda. ' 



Jockey's ta'en the parting kiss, 

O'er the mountains ho is gane ; 
And with him is a' my bliss, 

Nought but griefs with me remain. 
Spare my luve, ye winds that blaw, 

Flashy sleets and beating rain ! 
Spare my luve, thou feathery snaw, 

Drifting o'er the frozen piain. 



When the shades of evening creep 

O'er the day's fair, gladsome e'e, 
Sound and safely may he sleep, 

Sweetly blithe his waukening be ! 
He will think on her he loves, 

Fondly he'll repeat her name ; 
For where'er he distant roves, 

Jockey's heart is still at hame. 



CXXXVIII 
SatJj) dBnlie. 

Tune.—" The Ruffian's Rant." 



[Communicated to the Museum in the hand-writing of Bum* 
parf, but not much, is believed to be old. J 



A' t ie lads o' Thornie-bank, 

When they gae to the shore o' Bucky, 
They'll step in an' tak' a pint 
Wi' Lady Onlie, honest Lucky 1 
Lady Onlie, honest Lucky, 

Brews good ale at shore o' Bucky : 
I wish her sale for her gude ale, 
The best on a' the shore o' Bucky. 



Her house sae bien, her curch sae clean, 

I wat she is a dainty chucky ; 
And cheerlie blinks the ingle-gleed 
Of Lady Onlie, honest Lucky ! 
Lady Onlie, honest Lucky, 

Brews good ale at shore o' Bucky ; 
I wish her sale for her gude ale, 
The best on a' the shore o' Bucky : 



f s.) 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



CXXX1X 

Cfcc ©fjcbaHcr'ss Samcnt. 

Time. — " Captain O'Kean" 



f " Cbmpoaed " says Burns to M'Murdo, " at the desire of a friend 
•xUo hn.l an equal enthusiasm for the air and the subject." The 
friend, alluded to is supposed to be Robert Cleghorn : he lo\'ed tlie 
air much, and he was much of a Jacobite.] 



The small birds rejoice in the green leaves re- 
turning, 
The murmuring streamlet winds clear thro' 
the vale ; 
The hawthorn trees blow in the dew of the 
morning, 
And wild scattered cowslips bedeck the green 
dale : 
But what can give pleasure, or what can seem 
fair, 
While the lingering moments are numbered 
by care ? 
No ilow'rs gaily spriuging, nor birds sweetly 
singing, 
Can soothe the sad bosom of joyless despair. 



The deed that I dared, could it merit their malice, 

A king and a father to place on his throne ? 
His right are these hills, and his right are these 
valleys, 
Where the wild beasts find shelter, but I can 
find none ; 
But 'tis not my sufferings thus wretched, forlorn ; 
My brave gallant friends! 'tis your ruin I 
mourn ; 
Your deeds proved so loyal in hot-bloody trial — - 
Alas ! I can make you no sweeter return ! 



Thou grim king of terrors, thou life's gloomy foe ! 

Go, frighten the coward and slave * 
Go, teach them to tremble, fell tyrant ! but know, 

No terrors hast thou to the brave ! 



Thou strik'st the dull peasant — he sinks in the 
dark, 

Nor- saves e'en tne wreck of a name ; 
Thou strik'st the young hero — a glorious mark ! 

He falls in the blaze of his fame ! 






In the field of proud honour — our swords in our 
hands, 

Our king and our country to save — 
While victory shines en life's last ebbing sands. 

Oh ! who would not die with the brave ! 



CXLI. 
JUofo gentlg, gfowt &fton. 

Tune. — " Afton Water." 



[The scenes on Afton Water are beautiful, and the poet felt them, 
as well as the generous kindness of his earliest patroness, Mrs. Genera. 
Stewart, of A f ton-lodge, when he wrote this swe< 



Flow gently, sweet Afton ! among thy green 

braes, 
Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise ; 
My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream — 
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream. 



CXL. 
j&ong of 33cat^. 

Air. — "Oran an Aoig. 



e just finished the following song," says Burns to Mrs. 
which to a lady, the descendant of Wallace, and herself 
of several soldiers, needs neither preface nor apology."] 



field ofbattl . Time of the day, evening. The wounded 
and dying of the victorious army are supposed to join in the follow- 
ing tong: 



Paeewell, thou fair day, thou green earth, and 

■J with the bright setting sun ; 
l';ufcwcll Loves and friendships, ye dear tender 

Our race of existence is run | 



Thou s.tock-dove, whose echo resounds thro' the 
glen; 

Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den ; 

Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming for- 
bear — 

I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair. 



How lofty, sweet Afton ! thy neighbouring hills, 
Far mark'd with the courses of clear, winding 

rills ; 
There daily I wander as noon rises high, 
My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye. 



How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below. 
Where wild in the wood lands the primroses blow '' 
There, oft as mild evening weeps over the lea, 
The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me. 



OF ROBERT HURNS 



\m 



The crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides, i 
And winds by the cot where my Mary resides ; | 
How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave, 
As gathering sweet flow'rets she steins thy clear 
wave. 



Flow gently, sweet Afton! among thy green 

braes, 
Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays 1 
My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream — 
Flow gently, sweet Afton ! disturb not her dream. 



CXLII. 

Tune.—" The Bonnie Bell." 



[" Bonnie Hell" was first printed in the Museum: who the heroins 
was the poet has neglected to tell us, and it u a pity. ]• 



The smiling Spring comes in rejoicing, 

And surly Winter grimly flies ; 
Now crystal clear are the falling waters, 

And bonnie blue are the sunny skies ; 
Fresh o'er the mountains breaks forth the 
morning, 

The ev'ning gilds the ocean's swell ; 
All creatures joy in the sun's returning, 

And I rejoice in my bonnie Bell. 



The flowery Spring leads sunny Summer, 

And yellow Autumn presses near, 
Then in his turn comes gloomy Winter, 

Till smiling Spring again appear. 
Thus Seasons dancing, life advancing, 

Old Time and Nature their changes tell, 
But never ranging, still unchanging, 

I adore my bonnie Bell. 



CXLIII. 

STi)e ©arkg of 13ggart. 

Tune. — " Hey co? thro\ ,} 



[Communicated to the Museum by Burns in his own hand-writing . 
part at it k his composition, and some believe the whole.] 



Ut wi' the carles o' Dysart, 

- And the lads o' Buckhaven, 

And the kimmers o' Largo, 

And the lasses o' Leven. 



Hey, ca' thro', ca' thro', 
For we hae mickle ado ; 

J Icy, ca' thro', ca' thro', 
For we hae mickle ado. 



We hae tales to tell, 

And we hae sangs to sing; 
We hae pennies to spend, 

And we hae pints to bring. 



We'll live a' our days, 

And them that come behin', 
Let them do the like, 

And spend the gear they win. 
Hey, ca' thro', ca' thro', 

For we hae mickle ado , 
Hey, ca' thro', ca 1 thro', 
For we hae mickle ado. 



CXLIV 

Wb* ©allant WLmbev. 

Tune. — " The Weavers' March." 



[Sent by the poet to the Museum. Neither tradition nor 
has noticed it, but the song is popular among the looms in 
of Scotland.] 



Where Cart rins rowin to the sea, 
By mony a flow'r and spreading tree, 
There lives a lad, the lad for me, 

He is a gallant weaver. 
Oh, I had wooers aught or nine, 
They gied me rings and ribbons fine ; 
And I was fear'd my heart would tine, 

And I gied it to the weaver. 



My daddie sign'd my tocher-band, 
To gie the lad that has the land ; 
But to my heart I'll add my hand, 

And gie it to the weaver. 
While birds rejoice in leafy bowers ; 
While bees delight in op'ning flowers ; 
While corn grows green in simmer showers, 

I'll love my gallant weaver. 



!84 



CXLV. 

©fje ftaims gat out. 

Time. — " The deuks dang o'er my Daddie." 



THE POETTCAJ. WORKS 

cxlvh. 

Tune. — " The Deil cam fiddling through th? txwfo* 



I Burns found some of the sentiments and a few of the •word? of 
thissonp in a strain, rather rough and homespun, of Scotland's eldti 
dav. H.- communicated it to the M useum.] 



The bairns gat out wi' an unco shout, 

The deuks dang o'er my daddie, O ! 
The fien' -ma-care, quo' the feirrie auld wife, 

He was but a paidlin body, ! 
He paidles out, an' he paidles in, 

An' he paidles late an' early, ! 
Tliis seven lang years I hae lien by his side, 

An' he is but a fusionless carlie, O ! 



O, baud your tongue, my feirrie auld wife, 

O, baud your tongue, now Nansie, ! 
I've seen the day, and sae hae ye, 

Ye wadna been sae donsie, ! 
I've seen the day ye butter'd my brose, 

And cuddled me late and early, O ! 
But downa do's come o'er me now, 

And, oh I I feel it sairly, O ! 



CXLVI. 

&W$ dFaif anti dfauise. 

Tune. — " She's fair andfausc." 



[One of the happiest, as well as the most sarcastic of the songs of 
the North : the air is almost as happy as the words.] 



Sue's fair and fause that causes my smart, 

I lo'ed her meikle and lang , 
She's broken her vow, she's broken my heart, 

And I may e'en gae hang. 
A coof cam in wi' routh o' gear, 
And 1 hae tint my dearest dear ; 
But woman is but warld's gear, 

Sae let the bonnie lass gang. 



Whae'er ye be that woman Love, 

To this be never blind, 
Nae ferlie ; tis tho' fickle she prove, 

A woman has't by kind. 
O woman, lovely woman fair ! 
An angel form's fa'n to thy share. 
'J wad been o'er meikle to gien tnee mair- 

1 mean an angel moid. 



[Composed and sung by the poet at a festive meeting of the ex- 
cisemen of the Dumfries district.] 



The deil cam' fiddling through the town, 

And danced awa wi' the Exciseman, 
And ilka wife cries — "Auld Mahoun, 
I wish you luck o' the prize, man I" 
The deil's awa, the deil's awa, 

The deiFs awa wi' the Exciseman % 
He's dane'd awa, he's dane'd awa, 
He's dane'd awa wi' the Exciseman ' 



"We'll mak our maut, we'll brew our drink, 
We'll dance, and sing, and rejoice, man ; 

And mony braw thanks to the meikle black deil 
That dane'd awa wi' the Exciseman. 



There's threesome reels, there's foursome reels. 

There's hornpipes and strathspeys, man ; 
But. the ae best dance e'er cam to the land 
Was — the deil's awa' wi' the Exciseman. 
The deil's awa, the deil's awa, 

The deil's awa wi' the Exciseman : 
He's dane'd awa, he's dane'd awa, 
He's dane'd awa wi' the Exciseman. 



CXLVIII. 
Wfyz &o£dg Sagg of Ittberncgg. 

Tune. — " Lass of Inverness." 



[As Burns passed slowly over the moor of Culloden, in one of his 
Highland tours, the lament of the Lass of Inverness, it is said, rose 
on his fancy : the first four lines are partly old.] 



The lovely lass o' Inverness, 

Nae joy nor pleasure can she see ; 
For e'en and morn she cries, alas ! 

And ay the saut tear blin's her e'e j 
Drumossie moor — Drumossie day — 

A waefu' day it was to me ! 
For there I lost my father dear, 

My father dear, and brethren three. 



Their winding sheet the bluidy clay, 
Their graves are growing green to see : 

And by them lies the dearest lad 
That ever blest a woman's e'e 1 



OF ROKEIIT BURNS. 



185 



Now wae to thee, thou cruel lord, 
A biuidy man I trow thou be ; 

For mony a heart thou hast made sair, 
That ne'er lid wrong to thine or thee. 



CXLIX 
& reti, vcti i&oge. 

Tune. — " Graham's Strathspey" 



I Some editors have pleased themselves with tracing the sentiments 
of this >-ng in certain street ballads : it resembles them as much as a 
sour sloe resembles a drop-ripe damson. 1 



U, m.y luve's like a red, red rose, 
That's newly sprung in June : 

0, my luve's like the melodie, 
That's sweetly play'd in tune. 



As fair art thou, my bonnie lass, 

So deep in luve am I : 
And I will luye thee still, my dear, 

'Till a' the seas gang dry. 



•Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear, 
And the rocks melt wi' the sun : 

I will luve thee still, my dear, 
While the sands o' life shall run. 



Let her crown my love her law 
And in her breast enthrone me, 

Kings and nations — swith, aw a i 
Reif randies, I disown ye I 



And fare thee weel, my only luve ! 

And fare thee weel a-while ! 
And I will come again, my luve, 

Tho' it were ten thousand mile. 



CL. 
Soute, fohat mfe 3! fcg tf)ee. 

Tune. — " Louis } what reck I by thee." 



(The Jeannie of this very short, but very clever song is Mrs. Burns. 
Her name lias no chance of passing from the earth if impassioned 
erce can preserve it. J 



CLI 

P?aD J the togte. 

Tune. — " Had I the wyte she bade i 



[Burns in evoking this song out of the o.d verses did not cast 
wholly out the spirit of ancient licence in which our m'.niitrels In- 
dulged. He sent it to the Museum.] 



Had I the wyte, had I the wyte, 

Had I the wyte she bade me ; 
She watch'd me by the hie-gate side, 

And up the loan she shawed me ; 
And when I wadna venture in, 

A coward loon she ca'd me ; 
Had kirk and state been in the gate, 

I lighted when she bade me. 



Sae craftilie she took me ben, 

And bade me make nae clatter : 
" For our ramgunshoch glum gudeman 

Is out and owre the water :" 
Whae'er shall say I wanted grace 

When I did kiss and dawte her, 
Let him be planted in my place, 

Syne say I was the fautor. 



Could I for shame, could I for shame, 

Could I for shame refused her ? 
And wadna manhood been to blame, 

Had I unkindly used her ? 
He clawed her wi' the ripplin-kame, 

And blue and biuidy bruised her ; 
When sic a husband was frae hame, 

What wife but had excused her ? 



I dighted ay her een sae blue, 

And bann'd the cruel randy ; 
And weel I wat her willing mou', 

Was e'en like sugar-candy. 
A gloamin-shot it was I wot, 

I lighted on the Monday ; 
But I cam through the tysday's dew, 

To wanton Willie's brandy. 









18tf 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



CLII. 

©omtng t!)toupj) t^c &se. 

Tune. — " Coming through the Rye." 

The poet in this song removed some of the coarse chaff, from 
the old chaunt, and fitted it for the Museum, where it was first 
primed.] 



Coming through the rye, poor body, 

Coming through the rye, 
She draiglet a' her petticoatie, 

Coming through the rye. 
Jenny's a' wat, poor body, 

Jenny's seldom dry ; 
She draiglet a' her petticoatie, 

Coming through the rye. 



Gin a body meet a body — 
Coming through the rye, 

Gin a body kiss a body — 
Need a body cry ? 



Gin a body meet a body 

Coming through the glen, 
Gin a body kiss a body — 

Need the world ken ? 
Jenny's a' wat, poor body ; 

Jenny's seldom dry ; 
She draiglet a' her petticoatie, 

Coming through the rye. 



CULL 
¥oung ^amie, ^rfoc of a* t5e plain. 

Tune. — " The carlin o' the glen." 



[Sent to the Museum by Burns in his o 
Daly is thought to be his.] 



n hand-writing; pwt 



Young Jamie, pride of a' the plain, 
Sae gallant and sae gay a swain ; 
Thro' a' our lasses he did rove, 
And reigned resistless king of love : 
But now wi' sighs and starting tears, 
He strays amang the woods and briers ; 
Or in the glens and rocky caves 
His sad complaining dowie raves. 



I wha sae late did range and rove, 
And chang'd with every moon my love, 
I little thought the time was near, 
^Repentance I should buy sae dear : 
The slighted maids my torment see, 
And laugh at a' the pangs I dree ; 
"While she, my cruel, scornfu' fair, 
Forbids rae e'er to see her mair ! 



CLIV 

©ut otar t&e ifottg. 

Time.— " Charlie Gordon's welcome hmns. yi 



[In one of his letters to Cunningham, dated 11 th March, Yi'M. 
Burns quoted the four last lines of this tender and gentle lyric, and 
enquires how he likes them.] 



Out over the Forth I look to the north, 
But what is the north and its Highlands to 
me? 

The south nor the east gie ease to my breast, 
The far foreign land, or the wild rolling sea, 



But I look to the west, when I gae to rest, 
That happy my dreams and my slumbers may 
be; 

For far in the west lives he I lo'e best, 
The lad that is dear to my babie and me. 



CLV. 
W&e Hagg of lEcclcfec^an. 

Tune. — " Jacky Latin." 



[R'irns, in one of his professional visits to Ecclefechan, was amoscd 
with a rough old district song, which some one sung : he rendered, U 
a leisure moment, the language more delicate, and the sentiments !es< 
warm, and sent it to the Museum.] 



Gat ye me, O gat ye me, 

O gat ye me wi' naething ? 
Rock and reel, and spinnin' wheel, 

A mickle quarter basin. 
Bye attour, my gutcher has 

A hich house and a laigh ane, 
A' for bye, my bonnie sel', 

The toss of Ecclefechan. 



haud your tongue now, Luckie Laing, 

haud your tongue and jauner ; 

1 held the gate till you I met, 

Syne I began to wander: 
I tint my whistle and my sang, 

1 tint my peace and pleasure: 

But your green grafF, now, Luckie Laing, 
Wad airt me to my treasure. 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



187 



CLVX. 

©fje ©ooper o' ©utrtiie. 

Tune. — u Bab at the bowster." 

J The wit of this song is better than its delicacy : it is printed ii 
I'd* Museum, with the name of Burns attached.] 



The cooper o' Cuddie cam' here awa, 
And ca'd the girrs out owre us a' — 
And our gude-wife has gotten a ca' 

That anger' d the sijly gude-man, O. 
We'll hide the cooper behind the door ; 
Behind the door, behind the door ; 
We'll hide the cooper behind the door, 

And cover him under a mawn, 0. 



He sought them out, he sought them in, 
Wi', deil hae her ! and, deil hae him ! 
But the body was sae doited and blin', 
He wist na where he was gaun, 0. 



They cooper'd at e'en, they cooper'd at morn, 
'Till our gude-man has gotten the scorn ; 
On ilka brow she's planted a horn, 

And swears that they shall stan', O. 
We'll hide the cooper behind the door, 
Behind the door, behind the door ; 
We'll hide the cooper behind the door, 

And cover him under a mawn, O. 



CLVII. 

j&omet>oCg. 

Tunc. — " For the sake of Somebody" 

| Burns seems to have borrowed two or three lines of this !yric 
fiom Ramsay : he sent it to the Museum.] 



My heart is sair — I dare na tell — 
My heart is sair for somebody ; 
I could wake a winter night 
For the sake of somebody. 
Oh-hon ! for somebody ! 
Oh-hey ! for somebody ! 
I could range the world around, 
For the sake o' somebody ! 



Ye powers that smile on virtuous love, 

G, sweetly smile on somebody ! 
Frae ilka danger keep him free, 
And send me safe my somebody. 
Oh-hon ! for somebody ! 
Oh-hey ! for somebody ! 
I wad do — what wad I not ? 
For the sake o' somebodv 



OLVIII. 

%$$ CCarMn' o't. 

Tune. — " Salt-fish and dumplings " 



["This song," says Sir Harris Nicolas, "is in the Muaiial Mu- 
seum, but not with Burns's name to it/' It was given by burns to 
Johnson in his own hand-writing.] 



I coft a stane o' haslock woo', 

To make a wat to Johnny o't ; 
For Johnny is my only jo, 
I lo'e him best of ony yet. 

The cardin' o't, the spinnin' o't, 

The warpin' o't, the winnin' o't; 
When ilka ell cost me a groat, 
The tailor staw the lynin o't. 



For though his locks be lyart gray, 

And tho' his brow be beld aboon ; 
Yet T hae seen him on a day, 
The pride of a' the parishen. 

The cardin' o't, the spinnin o't, 

The warpin' o't, the winnin' o't; 
When ilka ell cost me a groat, 
The tailor staw the lynin o't 



CLIX. 

Mf)m Sanuar' 2$tmo. 

Tune.—" The lass that made the bed for me." 



[Burns found an old, clever, but not very decorous strain, record- 
ing an adventure which Charles the Second, while under Presby- 
terian rule in Scotland, had with a young lady of the house of Fort 
Letham, and exercising his taste and skill upon ir, produced the 
present— still too free song, for the Museum.] 



When Januar wind was blawing cauld 9 
As to the north I took my way, 

The mirksome night did me enfauld, 
I knew na where to lodge till day. 



By my good luck a maid I met, 
Just in the middle o' my care ; 

And kindly she did me invite 
To walk into a chamber fair. 



1 88 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



I bow'd fu' low unto this maid, 
And thank' d her for her courtesie ; 

I how'd fu' low unto this maid, 
And bade her mak a bed to me. 



She made the bed baith large and wide, 
Wi' twa white hands she spread it down ; 

She put the cup to her rosy lips, 

And drank, " Young man, now sleep ye 
soun'." 



She snatch' d the candle in her hand, 
And frae my chamber went wi' speed ; 

But I call' d her quickly back again 
To lay some mair below my head. 



A cod she laid below my head, 
And served me wi' due respect ; 

And to salute her wi' a kiss, 
I put my arms about her neck. 



" Haud aff your hands, young man," she says, 

u And dinna sae uncivil be : 
If ye hae onie love for me, 

O wrang na my virginitie !" 

VIII. 

Her hair was like the links o' gowd, 

Her teeth were like the ivorie ; 
Her cheeks like lilies dipt in wine, 

The lass that made the bed to me. 



Her bosom was the driven snaw, 
Twa drifted heaps sae fair to see ; 

Her limbs the polish' d marble stane, 
The lass that made the bed to me. 



I kiss'd her owre and owre again, 
And ay she wist na what to say ; 

I laid her between me and the wa' — 
The lassie thought na lang till day. 



Upon the morrow when we rose, 
I thank' d her for her courtesie ; 

But aye she blusk'd, and aye she sigY d, 
And said, " Alas ! ye've ruin'd me." 



I olasp'd her waist, and kiss'd her syne, 
"While the tear stood twinklin* in her e'e ; 

T said, " My lassie, dinna cry, 
For ye ay shall mak the bed to me.*' 



She took her mither's Holland sheets. 
And made them a' in sarks to me : 

Blythe and merry may she be, 
The lass that made the bed to me. 



The bonnie lass made the bed to me, 
The braw lass made the bed to me ; 

I'll ne'er forget till the day I die, 
The lass that made the bed to me ! 



CLX 

JEac far afua. 

Tune. — "Dalkeith Maiden Bridge, ' 



[This song was sent to the Aiuseum by Burns, in his crr,u hat.d- 
-.vriting.] 



0, sad and heavy should I part, 

But for her sake sae far awa; 
Unknowing what my way may thwart 

My native land sae far awa. 
Thou that of a' things Maker art, 

That form'd this fair sae far awa, 
Gie body strength, then '111 ne'er start 

At this my way sae far awa. 



How true is love to pure desert, 

So love to her, sae far awa : 
And nocht can heal my bosom's smart, 

"While, oh ! she is sae far awa. 
Nane other love, nane other dart, 

I feel but her's, sae far awa ; 
But fairer never touch'd a heart 

Than her's, the fair sae far awa. 



CLXI. 
I'll ag ca' in fig gon 3Tcfou. 

Tune. — " Vll gae nae mair to yon town" 



[Jean Armour inspired this very sweet song. Sir Harrii N.coW 
eays it is printed in Cromek's Reliquea : *t Wofi first printed :n the 
Museum.] 



I'll ay ca' in by yon town, 

And by yon garden green, again ; 
I'll ay ca' in by yon town, 

And see my bonnie Jean again. 
There's nane sail ken, there's nane sail guess, 

What brings me back the gate again ; 
But she my fairest faithfu' lass, 

And stownlins we sail meet again. 



OF ROB RUT BUUNS. 



18.9 



fcho'll wander by the aiken tree, 

'W hen trystin-time draws near again ; 
And when her lovely form I see, 

O haith, she's doubly dear again ! 
I'll ay ca' in by yon town, 

And by yon garden green, again ; 
I'll ay ca' in by yon town, 

And see ray bonnie Jean again. 



CLXII 
<&, feat gc fof)a'$ fa gon ^ofon. 

Tune. — "Til ay ca? in by yon town." 

[The beautiful Lucy Johnstone, married to Oswald, of Auchen- 
cruive, was the heroine of this song : it was not, however, composed 
expressly in honour of her charms. " As I was a good deal pleased," 
he says in a letter to Syme, "with my performance, I, in my 
first fervour, thought of sending it to Mrs. Oswald." He sent it to 
the Museum, perhaps also to the lady.] 



O, wat ye wha's in yon town, 
Ye see the e'enin sun upon ? 

The fairest dame's in yon town, 
That e'enin sun is shining on. 



Now haply down yon gay green shaw, 
She wanders by yon spreading tree ; 

How blest ye flow'rs that round her blaw, 
Ye catch the glances o' her e'e ! 



How blest ye birds that round her sing, 
And welcome in the blooming year ! 

And doubly welcome be the spring, 
The season to my Lucy dear. 



The sun blinks blithe on yon town, 
And on yon bonnie braes of Ayr ; 

But my delight in yon town, 
And dearest bliss, is Lucy fair. 



Without my lore, not a' the charms 
O' Paradise could yield me joy; 

But gie me Lucy in my arms, 

And welcome Lapland's dreary sky ! 



My cave wad be a lover's bower, 
The' raging winter rent the air ; 

And she a lovely little flower, 

That I wad tent and shelter there. 



O sweet is she in yon town, 

Yon sinkin sun's gane down upon ; 
A fairer than's in yon town 

His setting beam ne'er shone upon. 



If aiagry fate is sworn my foe, 

And suffering I am doom'd to boar ; 

I careless quit aught else below, 

But spare me — spare me, Lucy dear ! 



For while life's dearest blood is warn., 

Ae thought frae her shall ne'er depart, 
And she — as fairest is her form ! 
She has the truest, kindest heart ! 
O, wat ye wha's in yon town, 

Ye see the e'enin sun upon ? 
The fairest dame's in yon town 
That e'enin sun is shining oil. 



CLXIII. 
© J&ag, tfjg iftorn. 

Tune. — " May, thy MornJ' 

[Our lyrical legends assign the inspiration of this strain to the 
accomplished Clarinda. It has been omitted by Chambers in his 
" People's Edition" of Burns.] 



O May, thy morn was ne'er sae sweet 

As the mirk night o' December; 
For sparkling was the rosy wine, 

And private was the chamber : 
And dear was she I dare na name, 

But I will ay remember. 
And dear was she I dare na name, 

But I will ay remember. 



And here's to them, that, like oursel, 

Can push about the jorum ; 
And here's to them that wish us weel, 

May a' that's guid watch o'er them, 
And here's to them we dare na tell, 

The dearest o' the quorum. 
And here's to them, we dare na tell, 

The dearest o' the quorum I 



CLXIV. 

Tune. — " Ye're welcome, Charlie Stewart." 



|"The poet's eye was on Polly Stewart, but his mind seems to nave 
been with Charlie Stewart, and the Jacobite ballads, when he 
penned these words— they are in the Museum. | 



O lovely Polly Stewart ! 

O charming Polly Stewart! 
There's not a flower that blooms in May 

That's half so fair as thou art. 

3 r. 



J 90 



THE POETiCAL WORKS 



The flower it blaws, it fades and fa's, 
And art can ne'er renew it; 

But worth and truth eternal youth 
Will give to Polly Stewart. 



May he whose arms? shall fauld thy charms 

Possess a leal and true heart; 
To him be given to ken the heaven 

He grasps in Polly Stewart. 
O lovely Polly Stewart ! 

charming Polly Stewart ! 
There's ne'er a flower that blooms in May 

That'-? half so sweet as thou art. 



CLXV 

UT&e ?f^gf)lanu Satfote. 

Tune. — " If thou'lt play me fair play.' 



I A long and wearisome ditty, called " The Highland La5 and 
Lowland Lassie," which Burns compressed into these stanzas, for 
Johnson's Museum. 1 



The oonniest lad that e'er I saw, 

Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie, 
Wore a plaid, and was fu' braw, 

Bonnie Highland laddie. 
On his head a bonnet blue, 

Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie ; 
His royal heart was firm and true, 

Bonnie Highland laddie. 



Trumpets sound, and cannons roar, 

Bonnie lassie, Lowland lassie ; 
And a' the hills wi' echoes roar, 

Bonnie Lowland lassie, 
Glory, honour, now invite, 

Bonnie lassie, Lowland lassie, 
For freedom and my king to fight, 

Bonnie Lowland lassie. 



The sun a backward course shall take, 

Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie, 
Ere aught thy manly courage shake, 

Bonnie Highland laddie. 
Go, for yourself procure renown, 

Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie; 
And for your lawful king, his crown, 

Bonnie Highland laddie. 



CLXVL 

&nna, tf)g ©fjarm*. 

Tune. — " Bonnie Mary.'' ' 

[The heroine of this short, sweet song is unknown : t wc* i 
in the third edition of his Poems,] 

Anna, thy charms my bosom fire, 

And waste my soul with care 5 
But, ah ! how bootless to admire, 

When fated to despair ! 
Yet in thy presence, lovely fair, 

To hope may be forgiv'n ; 
For sure 'twere impious to despair, 

So much in sight of Heav'n. 






CLXVII 

©ajsjsfllte' 33anftg. 

Tune. — Unknown. 



[It is supposed that " Kdgmand Mary," w 
Cassillis' banks, is the heroine of these verses. j 






lJ iui:ie;iii:t on 



Now bank an' brae are claith'd in green, 

An' scatter' d cowslips sweetly spring; 
By Girvan's fairy -haunted stream, 

The birdies flit on wanton wing. 
To Cassillis' banks when e'ening fa's, 

There wi' Mary let me flee, 
There catch her ilka glance of love, 

The bonnie blink o' Mary's e'e ! 



The child wha boasts o' warld's walth 

Is aften laird o' meikle care ; 
But Mary she is a' my ain — 

Ah ! fortune canna gie me mair. 
Then let me range by Cassillis' banks, 

Wi' her, the lassie dear to me, 
And catch her ilka glance o' love, 

The bonnie blink o' Mary's e'e ! 



CLXVTII. 
&o ti>«, lobet) Mitf>> 

Tune. — Unknown. 



[There are several variations extant of these verses, and ainorp 
others one which transfers the praise from theNith to the Dee: but 
to the Dee, if the poet spoke in his own person, no such influenced 
could belong.] 



To thee, lov'd Nith, thy gladsome plains. 

Where late wi' careless thought I raug'd, 
Though prest wi' care and sunk in woe, 

To tlwe I bring a heart unchaiig'd. 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



U>1 



I love thee, Nith, thy banks and braes, 
Tho' mem'ry there my bosom tear ; 

For there he rov'd tliat brake my heart, 
Yet to that heart, ah ! still how dear ! 



Thro' the Lawiands, o'er the harder, 
Weel, my babie, may thcu furder : 
Ilerry the louns o' the laigh countre^, 
Syne to the Highlands hanie to mo 



CLXIX. 

3Samt6cfeg o* $arleg. 

Tune. — " The Killogie" 



[•'This song is in the Museum," says Sir Harris Nicolas, "but 
w ithout Burns' name." Burns took up an old song-, and letting some 
of the words stand, infused a Jacobite spirit into it, wrote it out, and 
sent it to the Museum.] 



Bannocks o' bear meal, 

Bannocks o' barley ; 
Here's to the Highlandman's 

Bannocks o' barley. 
Wha in a brulzie 

Will first cry a parley ? 
Never the lads wi' 

The bannocks o' barley. 



Bannocks o' bear meal, 

Bannocks o' barley ; 
Here's to the lads wi' 

The bannocks o' barley. 
Wha in his wae-days 

Were loyal to Charlie ? 
Wha but the lads wi' 

The bannocks o' barley. 



CLXX 
P?ee 3Mou. 

Tune. — " The Highland Balon. y 



I" Published in the Musical Museum," says Sir Harris Nicolas, 
« but without the name of the author." It is an old strain, eked out 
and amended by Burns, and sent to the Museum in his own hand- 
writing.] 



Hee balou ! my sweet wee Donald, 
Picture o' the great Clanronald ; 
Brawlie kens our wanton chief 
Wha got my young Highland thief. 



Leeze me on thy bonnie craigie, 
An' thou live, thou'il steal a naigie : 
Travel the country thro' and thro'. 
And briug hame a Carlisle cow. 



CLXXT. 

2&ae t* mn f^eart. 

Tune. — " Wae is my heart." 



[Composed, it is said, at the request of Clarke, the musician, wmo 
felt, or imagined he felt, some pangs of heart for one of the lot elioC 
young ladies in Nithsdale, Phillis M'Murdo.] 



Wae is my heart, and the tear's in my e'e ; 
Lang, lang, joy's been a stranger to me : 
Forsaken and friendless, my burden I bear, 
And the sweet voice o' pity ne'er sounds in my 
ear. 



Love, thou hast pleasures', and deep hae I loved : 
Love, thou hast sorrows, and sair hae I proved ; 
But this bruised heart that now bleeds in my 

breast, 
I can feel by its throbbings will soon be at rest. 



O, if I were happy, where happy I hae been, 
Down by yon stream, and yon bonnie castle- 
green ; 
For there he is wand' ring, and musing on me, 
Wha wad soon dry the tear frae his Phillis's e'e. 



CLXXII. 
fere's &l* »«rft& in Water. 

Tune. — " The Job of Journey-work."' 



[Eurns took the hint of this song from an older and less mi con ui 
straia, and wrote these words, it has been said, in humorous ailasion 
to the condition in which Jean Armour found herself before mamas*. ; 
as if Bums could be capable of anything so insulting. The words 
are in the Museum.] 



Altho' my back be at the wa', 
An tho' he be the fautor ; 

Altho' my back be at the wa' 
Yet, here's his health in water 



I 



192 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



! wae gae by his wanton sides, 

Sao brawlie he could flatter ; 
Till for his sake I'm slighted sair, 

And dree the kintra clatter. 
But tho' my back be at the wa', 

And tho' he be the fautor ; 
But tho' my back be at the wa', 

Yet, here's his health in water ! 



CLXXIIT. 

Tune. — " My Peggy's Face." 



[Composed in honour of Miss Margaret Chalmers, afterwards Mrs. 
lewis Hay, one of the wisest, and, it is said, the wittiest of all the 
poef s lady correspondents. Burns, in the note in which he communi- 
cated it to Johnson, said he had a strong private reason for wishing 
it to appear in the second volume of the Museum.] 



My Peggy's face, my Peggy's form, 
The frost of hermit age might warm ; 
My Peggy's worth, my Peggy's mind, 
Might charm the first of human kind. 
I love my Peggy's angel air, 
Her face so truly, heav'nly fair, 
Her native grace so void of art, 
But I adore my Peggy's heart. 



The lily's Ime, the rose's dye, 
The kindling lustre of an eye ; 
Who but owns their magic sway ? 
Who but knows they all decay ! 
The tender thrill, the pitying tear, 
The gen'rous purpose, nobly dear, 
The gentle look, that rage disarms— 
These are all immortal charms. 



CLXXIV. 

&foomg December. 

Tune. — " Wandering Willie." 



[These verses were, it is said, inspired by Clarinda, and must be 
taken as a record of his feelings at parting with one dear to him to 
the latest moments of existence — the Mrs. Mac of many atoast, both 
!» serious ana festive hours. 1 



Amce mair I hail thee, thou gloomy December ! 

Ance mair I hail thee wi' sorrow and care : 
Sad was the parting thou makes me remember, 

Parting wi' Nancy, oh \ nfl'er to meet mair. 



Fond lovers' parting is sweet painful pleasure, 
Hope beaming mild on the soft parting hour 

But the dire feeling, O farewell for ever ! 
Is anguish unmingl'd, and agony pure. 



Wild as the winter now tearing the forest. 

'Till the last leaf o' the summer is flown, 
Such is the tempest has shaken my bosom, 

Since my last hope and last comfort is gone : 
Still as I hail thee, thou gloomy Decembe?-, 

Still shall I hail thee wi' sorrow and care ; 
For sad was the parting thou makes me remember, 

Parting wi' Nancy, oh ! ne'er to meet mair. 



pont 



CLXXV. 
J*lg Eatig'ss Soton, there's Sates up 

Tune. — " Gregg's Pipes. .' 



f Most of this song is from the pen of Bums : he corrected the im- 
proprieties, and infused some of his own lyric genius into the old 
o*r&in, and printed the result in the Museum.] 



My lady's gown, there's gairs upon't, 
And gowden flowers sae rare upon't ; 
But Jenny's jimps and jirkinet, 
My lord thinks meikle mair upon' t. 
My lord a-hunting he is gane, 
But hounds or hawks wi' him are nape ; 
By Colin's cottage lies his game. 
If Colin's Jenny be at hame. 



My lady's white, my lady's red, 
And kith and kin o' Cassillis' blude ; 
But her ten-pund lands o' tocher guid 
Were a' the charms his lordship io'ed. 



Out o'er yon muir, out o'er yon moss, 
Wbare gor-cocks thro' the heather pass. 
There wons auld Colin's bonnie lass, 
A lily in a wilderness. 



Sae sweetly move her genty limbs, 
Like music notes o' lovers' hymns i 
The diamond dew is her een sae blue, 
Where laughing love sae wanton swims. 



My lady's dink, my lady's drest, 
The flower and fancy o' the west ; 
But the lassie that a man lo'es best, 
O that's the lass to make him blest 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



19* 



My lady's gown, there's gairs upon't, 
And gowden flowers sae rare upon't; 
Iiut Jenny's jimps and jirkinet, 
My lord thinks meikle mair upon't. 



CLXXVI. 

Tune. — " The King of France^ he rade a Race." 



[Burns wrote these verses in scorn of those, and they are many, 
who prefer 

•' The capon craws and queer ha ha's !" 
of emasculated Italy to the original and delicious airs, Highland and 
Lowland, of old Caledonia : the song is a fragment— the more's the 
Dity.J 



Amang the "trees, where humming bees 

At buds and flowers were hinging, O, 
Auld Caledon drew out her drone, 

And to her pipe was singing, O ; 
'Twas pibroch, sang, strathspey, or reek, 

She dirl'd them afffu' clearly, 0, 
When there cam a yell o' foreign squeels, 

That dang her tapsalteerie, 0. 



Their capon craws, and queer ha ha's, 

They made our lugs grow eerie, O ? 
The hungry bike did scrape and pike, 

'Till we were wae and weary, O ; 
But a royal ghaist wha ance was cas'd 

A prisoner aughteen year awa, 
lie fii'd a fiddler in the north 

That dang them tapsalteerie, 0. 



CLXXV1I. 

Z\)z ColnDctt 2ockj>; of Slmta. 

Tune. — " Banks of Banna" 



["Anna with the golden locks," one of the attendant maidens 
m Burns' howff, in Dumfries, was very fair and very tractable, and, 
■ s may be surmised from the song, had other pretty ways to render 
herself agreeable to the customers than the serving of wine. Burns 
lecominended this song to Thomson ; and one of his editors makes 
him say, " 1 think this is one of the besj love-songs I ever composed," 
I ut these are not the words of Burns; this contradiction is made 
openly, lest it should be thought that the bard had the bad taste to 
piefer this strain to dozens of others more simple, more impassioned 
ixd more natural.] 



Yestreen i had a pint o' wine, 
A place where body saw na' ; 

Yestreen iay on this breast o' mine 
The gowden locks of Anna. 



The hungry Jew iu wilderness 

Rejoicing o'er his manna, 
Was naething to my hinuy bliss 
Upon the lips of Anna. 



Ye monarchs tak the east and west, 

Frae Indus to Savannah ! 
Gie me within my straining grasp 

The melting form of Anna. 
There I'll despise imperial charms, 

An empi*ess or sultana, 
While dying raptures in her arms 

I give and take with Anna ! 



Awa, thou flaunting god o' day ! 

Awa, thou pale Diana ! 
Ilk star gae hide thy twinkling ray, 

When I'm to meet my Anna 
Come, in thy raven plumage, night ! 

Sun, moon, and stars withdrawn a' 
And bring an angel pen to write 

My transports wi' my Anna ! 



The kh'k an' state may join and tell - 

To do sic things I maunna : 
The kirk and state may gang to hell, 

And I'll gae to my Anna. 
She is the sunshine of my e"e, 

To live but her I canna : 
Had I on earth but wishes three, 

The first should be my Anna. 



CLXXVIII. 

01$ am fctnt) UearU v$. 



[This is the first song composed by Burns for the naoonii colli?i- 
tion of Thomson : it was written in October, 1792. " On reading 
over the Lea-rig," he says, " I immediately set about uying i^> 
hand on it, and, after all, 1 could make nothing more of it than as. 
following." The first and second verses were only sent : Bums ad dee 
the third and last verse in December.] 



Whev o'er the hill the eastern star, 

Tells bughtin-time is near, my jo ; 
And owsen frae the furrow'd field, 

Return sae dowf and weary, O ! 
Down by the burn, where scented birke 1 

Wi' dew are hanging clear, my jo ; 
I'll meet thee on the lea-rig, 

My ain kind dearie i 



In mirkest glen, at midnignt hour, 
I'd rove, and ne'er be eerie, O; 

If thro' that glen I gaed to thee, 
My ain kind dearie O ! 

5 Fo? "sortiwd Mirks," b« soim rop^, " outon 



104 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



Altho' the night were ne'er sae wild, 
And I were ne'er sae wearie, O, 

I'd meet thee on the lea-rig, 
My ain kind dearie O ! 



The hunter lo'es the morning sun, 

To rouse the mountain deer, my jo ; 
At noon the fisher seeks the glen, 

Along the burn to steer, my jo ; 
Gie me the hour o' gloamin gray, 

It maks my heart sae cheery, O, 
To meet thee on the lea-rig, 

My ain kind dearie O. 



CLXXIX, 
<Fo #Iarg ©ampfall. 



[" In my very early years," says Burns toThomson, " when I was 
blinking of going to the West Indies, I took the following farewell 
ot i dear girl. You must know that all my earlier love-songs were 
the breathings of ardent passion, and though it might have been 
easy in after times to have given them a polish, yet that polish, to 
me, would have defaced the legend of my heart, so faithfully in- 
scrbedon them. Their uncouth simplicity was, as they say of wines, 
their race." The heroine of this early composition was Highland 



Wili ye go to the Indies, my Mary, 
And leave old Scotia's shore ? 

Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary, 
Across th' Atlantic's roar ? 



sweet grows the lime and the orange, 
And the apple on the pine ; 

But a' the charms o 1 the Indies 
Can never equal thine. 



I hae sworn by the Heavens to my Mary, 
I hae sworn by the Heavens to be true ; 

And sae may the Heavens forget me 
When I forget my vow ! 



plight me your faith, my Mary, 

And plight me your lily white hand ; 

plight me your faith, my Mary, 
Before I leave Scotia's strand. 



We hae plighted our troth, my Mary, 

In mutual affection to join ; 
\nd curst bo the cause that shall part us I 

The hour and the moment o* time ! 



CLXXX. 



[These words were written for Thomson : or rather maae txeesfl 
pore. " I might give you something more profound," said the poet, 
" yet it might not suit the light-horse gallop of the air, so well as thi, 
random clink ."J 



I. 

She is a winsome wee thing, 
She is a handsome wee thing, 
She is a bonnie wee thing, 
This sweet wee wife o 7 mine. 



I never saw a fairer, 
I never lo'ed a dearer „ 
And niest my heart I'll wear her ? 
For fear my jewel tine.' 



She is a winsome wee thing, 
She is a handsome wee thing, 
She is a bonnie wee thing, 
This sweet wee wife o' mine. 



The warld's wrack we share o t, 
The warstle and the care o't ; 
Wi' her I'll blythely bear it, 
And think my lot divine. 



CLXXXT. 



\" I have just," says Burns to Thomson, "been looking over the 
' Collier's bonnie Daughter,' and if the following rhapsody, which I 
composed the other day, on a charming Ayrshire girl, Miss Lesley 
Baillie, as she passed through this place to England, will suit your 
taste better than the Collier Lassie, fall on and welcome." This lady 
was soon afterwards married to Mr. Cuming, of Logie.J 



O saw ye bonnie Lesley 

As she ga'ed o'er the border ? 
She's gane, like Alexander, 

To spread her conquests farther. 



To see her is to love her, 
And love but her for ever , 

For Nature made her what sue Lb, 
And never made anither J, 



i 




: 



The golden hours, on ange] win? 

Flew ^'cr me and my dearie. 
For dear Lo me, as lighl an.] lift 

Was my sweei Highland Marj " 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



195 



Thou art a queen, fair Lesley, 
Thy subjects we, before thee : 

Thou art divine, fair Lesley, 
The hearts o' men adore thee. 



The Deil he could na scaith thee, 
Or aught that wad belang thee ; 

He'd look into thy bonnie face, 
And say, " I canna wrang thee." 



The powers aboon will tent thee ; 

Misfortune sha' na steer thee : 
Thou'rt like themselves so lovely, 

That ill they'll ne'er let near thee. 



Return again, fair Lesley, 

Return to Caledonie ; 
That we may brag, we hae a lass 

There's nane again sae bonnie. 



CLXXXIL 

Tune. — " Katherine Ogle.' 



[Mary Campbell, of whose worth and beauty Burns has sung 
with such deep feeling, was the daughter of a mariner, who lived in 
Greenock. She became acquainted with the poet while on service 
at the castle of Montgomery, and their strolls in the woods and their 
roaming trystes only served to deepen and settle their affections. 
Their love had much of the solemn as well as of the romantic : on the 
day of their separation they plighted their mutual faith by the ex- 
change of Bibles: they stood with a running-stream between them, 
and lifting up water in their hands vowed love while woods grew 
and waters ran. The Bible which the poet gave was elegantly 
bound : ' Ye shall not swear by my name falsely,' was written in trie 
bold Mauchline hand of Burns, and underneath was his name, and 
his mark as a freemason. They parted to meet no more: Mary 
Campbell was carried off suddenly by a burning fever, and the first 
intimation which the pcet had of her fate, was when, it is said, he 
visited her friends to meet her on her return from Cowal, whither 
she had gone to make arrangements for her marriage. The Bible 
is in the keeping of her relations: we have seen a lock of her hair ; 
it was very long and very bright, and of a hue deeper than the flaxen. 
The gong was written frr Thomson's work.] 



Ye banks, and braes, and streams around 

The castle o' Montgomery, 
Green be your woods, and fair your flowers, 

Your waters never drumlie ! 
There Simmer first unfauld her robes, 

And there the langest tarry ; 
For there I took the last farewell 

Of my sweet Highland Mary. 



How sweetly bloom'd the guy green biik, 

How rich the hawthorn's blossom, 
As underneath their fragrant snade 

I clasp'd her to my bosom ! 
The golden hours, on angel wings, 

Flew o'er me and my dearie ; 
For dear to me, as light and life, 

Was my sweet Highland Mary ! 

in. 
Wi' mony a vow, and lock'd embrace, 

Our parting was ru' tender ; 
And, pledging aft to meet again, 

We tore oursels asunder ; 
But oh ! fell death's untimely frost, 

That nipt my flower sae early ! — . 
Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay, 

That wraps my Highland Mary. 



O pale, pale now, those rosy lips 

I aft hae kissed sae fondly ! 
And clos'd for ay the sparkling glance, 

That dwelt on me sae kindly ! 
And mouldering now in silent dust, 

That heart that lo'ed me dearly — 
But still within my bosom's core 

Shall live my Highland Mary ! 



CLXXXIJI. 
8ttlH £ob iHovvte. 



[The starring lines of this song are from one of no little merit tn 
Ramsay's collection : the old strain is sarcastic; the new strain is 
tender:' it was written for Thomson.] 



There's auld Rob Morris that wons in yon 

glen, 
He's the king o' guid fellows and wale of auld 

men; 
He has gowd in his coffers, he has owsen and 

kine, 
And ae bonnie lassie, his darling and mine. 



She's fresh as the morning, the fairest in May : 
She's sweet as the ev'ning amang the new hay ; 
As blythe and as artless as the lamb on the lea. 
And dear to my heart as the light to my e'e. 



But oh ! she's an heiress, — auld Robin's a laird, 
And my daddie has nought but a cot -house and 
yard: 



H>6 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



A wooer like me maunua hope to come speed ; 
The wounds I must hide that will soon be my 
dead. 



.The day comes to me, but delight brings me 

nane ; 
The night comes to me, but my rest it is gane : 
I wander my lane like a night-troubled ghaist, 
And I sigh as my heart it wad burst in my 

breast. 



had she but been of a lower degree, 

1 then might hae hop'd she wad smil'd upon 

me ! 
O, how past descriving had then been my bliss, 
As now my distraction no words can express! 



CLXXX1V. 

Uuncan Srai) 



[This Duncan Gray of Burns has nothing in common with the 
wild old song of that name, save the first line, and a part of the 
third; neither has it any share in the sentiments of an earlier strain, 
with the same title, by the same hand. It was written for the work 
of Thomson.] 



Duncan Gray cam here to woo, 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't, 
On blythe yule night when we were fou, 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 
Maggie coost her head fu' high, 
Look'd asklent and unco skeigh, 
Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh ; 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 



Duncan fleech'd, and Duncan pray'd, 
Ha, ha, the wooing o't ; 

Meg was deaf as Ailsa Craig, 
Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 

Duncan sigh'd baith out and in, 

Grat his een baith bleer't and blin', 

Spak o' lowpin o'er a linn ; 
Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 



Time and chance are but a tide, 
Ha, ha, the wooing o't ; 

Slighted love is sair to bide, 
Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 

Shall I, like a fool, quoth he, 

For a haughty hizzie die ? 

She may gae to — France for me I 
Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 



How it comes let doctors tell, 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't ; 
Meg grew sick — as he grew heal, 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 
Something in her bosom wrings, 
For relief a sigh she brings ; 
And 0, her een, they spak sic things 1 

Ha. ha, the wooing o't. 



Duncan was a lad o' grace, 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't ; 
Maggie's was a piteous case, 
Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 
Duncan could na be her death, 
Swelling pity smoor'd his wrath .- 
Now they're crouse and canty baith. 
Ha, ha. the woomo 1 o't. 



CLXXXV 
# Poortttf) ©aulD. 

Tune.—" / had a Horse." 



[Jean Lorimer, the Chloris and the " Lassie with the Unv white 
■ : -" of Burns, was the heroine of this exquisite lyric: she was at 
:!, ne very young; her shape was fine, and her "dimpled cheek 

inci ,. ry mou" will he long remembered in Nithsdale.] 



O poortith cauld, and restless love, 

Ye wreck my peace between ye; 
Yet poortith a' I could forgive, 
An' 'twere na' for my Jeanie. 

O why should Fate sic pleasure have, 

Life's dearest bands untwining ? 
Or why sae sweet a flower as love 
Depend on Fortune's shining ? 



This warld's wealth when I think on 
It's pride, and a' the lave o't — 

Fie, fie on silly coward man, 

That he should be the slave c't ! 



Her een sae bonnie blue betray 
How she repays my passion ; 

But prudence is her e'er word ay, 
She talks of rank and fashion. 



O wha can prudence think upon, 
And sic a lassie by him ? 

wha can prudence think upon, 
And sae in love ps I am ? 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



197 



How blest the humble cotter's fate I 1 

He woes his simple dearie ; 

The silly bogles, wealth and state, 

Can never make them eerie. 

O why should Fate sic pleasure have, 

Life'3 dearest bands untwining ? 
Or why sae sweet a flower as love 
Depend on Fortune's shining ? 



ULXXXVI. 

<£alla 2&atcr. 



[ 'Ga^la Water' is an improved version of an earlier song by 
Hums : but both songs owe some of their attractions to an older 
strain, which the exquisite air has made popular over the world. It 
was written foi Thomson. | 



THERE's,braw, braw lads on Yarrow braes, 
That wander thro' the blooming heather ; 

But Yarrow braes nor Ettrick shaws 
Can match the lads o' Galla Water. 



But there is ane, a secret ane, 
Aboon them a' I lo'e him better ; 

And I'll be his, and he'll be mine, 
The bonnie lad o' Galla Water. 



Altho' his daddie was nae laird, 
And tho' I hae nae meikle tocher ; 

Yet rich in kindest, truest love, 

We'll tent our flocks by Galla Water. 



It ne'er was wealth, it ne'er was wealth, 
That coft contentment, peace, or pleasure ; 

The bands and bliss o' mutual love, 
O that's the chiefest warld's treasure ! 



' The wild-wood Indian's Faa-,* > in the original MS. 



clxxxvii 

Sort) Crcgorj. 



fDr. Wolcot wrote a Lord Gregory for Thomsons collection, in 
imitation of which Burns wrote his, and the Englishman com- 
plained, with an oath, that the Scotchman sought to rob him of tht 
merit of his composition. Wolcot's song was, indeed, written fir«t. 
but they are both but imitations of that most exquisite old ballad, 
"Fair Annie of Lochryan," which neither Wolcot nor Burnnilaod 
as it deserved : it far surpasses both their songs.] 



mirk, mirk is this midnight hour, 
And loud the tempest's roar ; 

A waefu' wanderer seeks thy tow'r, 
Lord Gregory, ope thy door ! 



An exile frae her father's ha', 
And a' for loving thee ; 

At least some pity on me shaw, 
If love it may na be. 



Lord Gregory, mind'st thou not the grove 

By bonnie Irwin-side, 
Where first I own'd that virgin-love 

I lang, lang had denied ? 



How often didst thou pledge and vow 
Thou wad for ay be mine ; 

And my fond heart, itsel' sae true, 
It ne'er mistrusted thine. 



Hard is thy heart, Lord Gregory, 
And flinty is thy breast — 

Thou dart of heaven that nasi) est b^ 
O wilt thou give me rest ! 



Ye mustering thunders from above, 

Your willing victim see ! 
But spare and pardon my fause love, 

His wrangs to heaven and me I 



198 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



CLXXXVIII. 

^ttarj? J&orteon. 
Tune. — u Bide ye yet* 



["The song prefixed ,* observes Bums to Thomson, " is one of my 
Juvenile works. I leave it in your hands. I do not think it very re- 
markable either for its merits or its demerits." " Of all the produc- 
tions of Burns," says Hazlitt, "the pathetic and serious love- 
song? which he has left behind him, in the manner of the old ballads, 
are, perhaps, those which take the deepest and most lasting hold of 
the mind. Such are the lines to Mary M orison." The song is sup- 
posed to have been written on one of a family of M orisons Rt Mauch- 
line.] 



O Mary, at thy window be, 

It is the wish'd, the trysted hour ! 
Those smiles and glances let me see 

That make the miser's treasure poor : 
How blithely wad I bide the stoure, 

A weary slave frae sun to sun ; 
Could I the rich reward secure, 

The lovely Mary Morison. 



Yestreen, when to the trembling string 

The dance gaed thro' the lighted ha', 
To thee my fancy took its wing, 

I sat, but neither heard or saw : 
Tlio' this was fair, and that was braw, 

And yon the toast of a' the town, 
I sigh'd, and said amang them a', 

" Ye are na Mary Morison." 



Mary, canst thou wreck his peace, 

Wha for thy sake wad gladly die ? 
Or canst thou break that heart of his, 

Whase only faut is loving thee ? 
If love for love thou wilt na gie, 

At least be pity to me shown ; 
A thought ungentle canna be 

The thought o' Mary Morison. 



CLXXXIX. 

S&anUering millit. 

FIRST VERSION. 



[The idea of this song is taken from verses of the same name pub- 
lished by Herd: the heroine is supposed to h&ee been the accom- 
plished Mrs. Riddel. Erslsine and Thomson satin judgment upon 
it, ana, like true critics, squeezed much of the natural and original 
sp rit out of it. Burns Approved of their alterations ; buctie approved, 
no 1oubt, in bitterness of spirit.] 



Here awa, there awa, wandering Willie, 
Now tired with wandering, haud awa hame ? 

Come to my bosom my ae only dearie, 

A nd tell me thou bring'st me my Willie the 
same. 



Loud blew the cauld winter winds at our parting,* 
It was na the blast brought the tear in my e'e; 

Now welcome the simmer, and welcome my 
Willie, 
The simmer to nature, my Willie to me. 



Ye hurricanes, rest in the cave o' your slumbers f 
O how your wild horrors a lover alarms ! 

Awaken ye breezes, row gently ye billows, 
And waft my dear laddie ance mair to my arms. 



But if he's forgotten his faithfullest Nannie, 
O still flow between us, thou wide roaring 
main ; 

May I never see it, may I never trow it, 

But, dying, believe that my Willie's my am ! 



cxc. 

LAST VERSION. 



[This is the " Wandering Willie" as altered by Erskincand Thom- 
son, and approved by Burns, after rejecting several of their emenda- 
tions. The changes were made chiefly with the view of harmonizing 
the words with the music— an Italian mode of mending the harmony 
of the human voice.] 



Here awa, there awa, wandering Willie, 
Here awa, there awa, hand awa hame ; 

Come to my bosom, my ain only dearie, 
Tell me thou bring'st me my Willie the same. 



Winter winds blew loud and cauld at our parting, 
Fears for my Willie brought tears in my e'e : 

Welcome now simmer, and welcome my Willie, 
The simmer to nature, my Willie to me. 



Rest, ye wild storms, in the cave of your slumbers, 
How your dread howling a lover alarms ! 

Wauken ye breezes, row gently ye billows, 
And waft my dear laddie ance mair to my 
arms. 



But oh, if he's faithless, and minds na his Nannie, 
Flow still between us thou wide-roaring main; 

May I never see it, may I newer trow it, 
But, dying, believe that my Willie's my aia. 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



19fl 



CTCI. 

©pen tl)c Boor to mr, of) ! 



(Written foi Thomson's collection : the first version which he wiotc 
w:& not happy in its harmony : Burns altered and corrected it as it 
Dow stands, and then said, " I do not know if this song be really 
mended."! 



Oh, open the door, some pity to show, 

Oh, open the door to me, Oh ! i 
Tho' thou has been false, I'll ever prove true, 

Oh, open the door to me, Oh ! 



Cauld is the blast upon my pale cheek, 
Bat caulder thy love for me, Oh ! 

The frost that freezes the life at my heart, 
Is nought to my pains frae thee, Oh ! 



The wan moon is setting behind the white wave, 

And time is setting with me, Oh ! 
False friends, false love, farewell ! for mair 

I'll ne'er trouble them, nor thee, Oh ! 



She has open'd the door, she has open' d it wide; 

She sees his pale corse on the plain, Oh ! 
My true love ! she cried, and sank down by his 
side, 

Never to rise again, Oh ! 



CXCII. 

Tune. — "Bonnie Dundee.' 



[Jessie Staig, tne eldest daughter of the provost of Dumfries, was 
the heroine of this song. She became a wife and a mother, but died 
earlv in life: she is still affectionately remembered in her native 
place.] 



True hearted was he, the sad swain o' the 
Yarrow, 

And fair ai e the maids on the banks o' the Ayr, 
But by the sweet side o' the Nith's winding river, 

Are lovers as faithful, and maidens as fair : 
To equal young Jessie seek Scotland all over; 

To equal young Jessie you seek it in vain ; 
Grace, beauty, and elegance fetter her lover, 

And maidenly modesty fixes the chain. 



1 Tivte second Vine wpj 



' If love it may na be. Oh '." 



O, fresh is the rose in the gay, dewy morning, 

And sweet is the lily at evening close ; 
But in the fair presence o' lovely young Jessie 

Unseen is the lily, unheeded the rose. 
Love sits in her smile, a wizard ensnaring ; 

Enthron'd in her een he delivers his law : 
And still to her charms she alone is a stranger — 

Her modest demeanour's the jewel of a' I 



cxoin. 

Ufa ^ooi- anfc P?one$t j&ofcger. 

Air.— «• The Mill, Mill, 0." 



[Burns, it is said, composed this song, once very popular, on hear- 
ing a maimed soldier relate his adventures, at BrownhilJ, in Nithn- 
dale : it was published by Thomson, after suggesting some alterations, 
which were properly rejected.] 



When wild war's deadly blast was blawn, 

And gentle peace returning, 
Wi' mony a sweet babe fatherless, 

And mony a widow mourning ; 
I left the lines and tented field, 

Where lang I'd been a lodger, 
My humble knapsack a' my wealth, 

A poor and honest sodger. 



A leal, light heart was in my breast, 

My hand unstain'd wi' plunder ; 
And for fair Scotia, hame again, 

I cheery on did wander. 
I thought upon the banks o' Coi'l. 

I thought upon my Nancy, 
I thought upon the witching smile 

That caught my youthful fancy. 



At length I reach'd the bonny glen, 

Where early life I sported ; 
I pass'd the mill, and trysting thorn, 

Where Nancy aft I courted : 
Wha spied I but my ain dear maid, 

Down by her mother's dwelling ! 
And turn'd me round to hide the flood 

That in my een was swelling. 



Wi' alter'd voice, quoth I, sweet lasg, 

Sweet as yon hawthorn's blossom, 
! happy, happy may he bi 

That's" dearest to thy bosom : 
My purse is light, I've far to gaii*. 

And fain wad be thy lodger ; 
I've serv'd my king and country lang— 

Take pity on a sodger. 



•200 



THE POKTICAL WORKS 



Sae wistfully she gaz'd on me, 

And lovelier was than ever ; 
Quo' she, a sodger ance I lo'ed, 

Forget him shall I never : 
Our humble cot, and hamely fare, 

Ye freely shall partake it, 
That gallant badge — the dear cockade- 

Ye*re welcome for the sake o't. 



She gaz'd — she redden'd like a rose — ■ 

Syne pale like onie lily ; 
She sank within my arms, and cried, 

Art thou my ain dear Willie ? 
By him who made yon sun and sky — 

By whom true love's regarded, 
I am the man ; and thus may still 

True lovers be rewarded ! 



The wars are o ; er, and I'm come hame, 

And find thee still true-hearted ; 
Tho' poor in gear, we're rich in love, 

A nd mair we'se ne'er be parted. 
Quo' she, my grandsire left me gowd, 

A mailen plenish'd fairly ; 
And come, my faithful sodger lad, 

Thou'rt welcome to it dearly ! 



For gold the merchant ploughs the main, 

The farmer ploughs the manor ; 
But glory is the sodger's prize, 

The sodger's wealth is honour ; 
The brave poor sodger ne'er despise, 

Nor count him as a stranger ; 
Remember he's his country's stay, 

In day and hour of danger. 



CXCIV 
Jfteg o' the JWflL 

Air. — "Hey! bonnie lass, will you lie in a barrack V 



[ ,r Do you know a fine air," Burns asks Thomson, April, 1793, 
"called ' Jackie Hume's Lament?' I have a song of considerable 
merit to that air: I'll enclose you both song and tune, as I have them 
ready to send to the Museum." It is probable that Thomson liked 
thc-3» verses too well to let them go willingly from his hands: Burns 
touched up the old song with the same starting line, but a less deli- 
cate conclusion, and published it in the Museum.] 



O ken ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten ? 
An' ken ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten ? 
She haa gotten a coof wi' a claute o' siller, 
And broken the heart o' the barley Miller. 



The Miller was strappin, the Miller was ruddy ; 
A heart like a lord and a hue like a lady : 
The Laird was a widdiefu', bleerit knurl ; 
She's left the guid-fellow and ta'en the churl. 



The Miller he hecht her a heart leal and loving; 
The Laird did address her wi' matter mair 

moving, 
A fine pacing horse wi' a clear chained bridle, 
A whip by her side and a bonnie side-saddle. 



wae on the siller, it is sae prevailing; 
And wae on the love that is fixed on a mailen I 
A tocher's nae word in a true lover's parle, 
But, gie me my love, and a fig for the warl f 



exev. 

he fjae I been. 

Tune. — " Liggeram Cosh. ' ' 



I bums, -who seldom praised his own compositions, told Thomson, 
for whose work he wrote it, that " Blythe hae I been on yon lull," 
was one of the finest songs he had ever made in his life, and com- 
posed on one of the most lovely women in the world. The heroine 
was Miss Leiliy Baillie.1 



Blythe hae I been on yon hili 

As the lambs before me ; 
Careless ilka thought and free 

As the breeze flew o'er me. 
Now nae langer sport and play, 

Mirth or sang can please me ; 
Lesley is sae fair and coy, 

Care and anguish seize me. 



Heavy, heavy is the task, 

Hopeless love declaring : 
Trembling, I dow nocht but glow'r. 

Sighing, dumb, despairing ! 
If she winna ease the thraws 

In my bosom swelling ; 
Underneath the grass-green sod 

Soon maun be my dwelling, 







"She gaz'd- she reddea'd lib 
■ ■ ■ i " ■ lily j 
n M arm ,and crii 
Willi. 



OP ROBERT BURNS. 



201 



CXCVI. 

Eogtm Skater. 



[" Have you ever, my dear sir," says Burns to Thomson, 25th June, 
1793, " fclt your bosom ready to burst with indignation on reading of 
those mighty villains who divide kingdom against kingdom, desolate 
provinces, and lay nations waste, out of the wantonness of ambition, 
oroften from still more ignoble passions ? In a mood of this kind to-day 
I recollected the air of Logan Water. If I have done anything at all 
like justice to my feelines, the following song, composed in three- 
quarters of an hour's meditation in my elbow-chair, ought to have 
ssnie merit.*' The po;t had in mind, too, during this poetic fit, 
the beautiful song of Logan-braes, by my friend John Mayne, a 
Nithsdalepoet.] 



O Logan, sweetly didst thou glide, 
That day I was my Willie's bride ! 
And years sinsyne hae o'er us "run, 
Like Logan to the simmer sun. 
But now thy flow'ry banks appear 
Like drumlie winfer, dark and drear, 
While my dear lad maun face his faes. 
Far, far frae me and Logan braes ! 



Again the merry month o' May 

Has made our hills and valleys gay; 

The birds rejoice in leafy bowers, 

The bees hum round the breathing flowers : 

Blythe Morning lifts his rosy eye, 

And Evening's tears are tears of joy: 

My soul, delightless, a' surveys, 

While Willie's far frae Logan braes. 



Within yon milk-white hawthorn bush, 
Amang her nestlings sits the thrush; 
Her faithfu' mate will share her toil, 
Or wi' his song her cares beguile : 
But I, wi' my sweet nurslings here, 
Nae mate to help, nae mate to cheer, 
Pass widow'd nights and joyless days, 
While Willie's far frae Logan braes. 



wae upon you, men o' state, 
That brethren rouse to deadly hate ! 
As ye make mony a fond heart mourn, 
Sae may it on your heads return ! 
How can your flinty hearts enjoy 
The widow's tears, the orphan's cry P 1 
But soon may peace bring happy days 
And Willie hame to Logan braes ! 



• Orifirally— 



: ' Ye mind na, 'mid your cruel joyc, 
The widow's tears, the orphan's ar'xs. 



CXCVII 

Z\)t wD, ret) l&oi-?. 

Air. — " Hughic Graham." 



'There are snatches of old song so exquisitely fine that, likefiar- 
tured crystal, they cannot be mended or eked out, u ithi 
where the hand of the restorer baa been. This seems I lie case u iti, 
the first verse of this song, which file poet found in Wcthewpuon. 
and completed by the addition of the second verse, which 
inferior, by desiring Thomson to make 1- is own • 
the other follow, which would conclude the strain with a thought 
as beautiful as it was original.] 



were my love yon lilac fail-, 

Wi' purple blossoms to the spring; 
And I, a bird to shelter there, 

When wearied on my little wing ! 
How I wad mourn, when it was torn 

By autumn wild, and winter rude ! 
But I wad sing on wanton Aving, 

When youthfu' May its bloom renewed. 



O gin my love were yon red rose, 

That grows upon the castle wa' ; 
And I mysel' a drap o' dew, 

Into her bonnie breast to fa' ! 
Oh, there beyond expression blest, 

I'd feast on beauty a' the night ; 
Seal'd on her silk-saft faulds to rest, 

Till fley'd awa by Phoebus' light. 



CXCVIII. 

Bonnie ^t:an. 



[Jean M'Murdo, the heroine of this song, the eldest daughter of 
John M'Murdo of Drumlanrig, was, both in merit and look., verv 
worthy of so sweet a strain, and justified the poet from the el.srse 
made against him in the West , that his beauties were not other men's 
beauties. In the M'Murdo manuscript, in liurns' hand-writine,, 
there is a well-merited compliment which has slipt out of the printed 
copy in Thomson :— 

" Thy handsome foot thou shalt na set 
In bam or byre to trouble thee. } 



There was a lass, and she was fair, 
At kirk and market to be seen, 

When a' the fairest maids were met, 
Tho fairest maid was bonnie Jean. 



And aye she wrought her mammie's wark, 
And ay she sang sae m err ilie : 

The blithest bird upon the bush 
Had ne'er a lighter heart than she. 
3f 



202 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



But hawks will rob the tender joys 
That bless the little lintwhite's nest ; 

And frost will blight the fairest flowers, 
And love will break the soundest rest. 



Young Robie was the brawest lad, 
The flower and pride of a' the glen ; 

And he had owsen, sheep, and kye, 
And wanton naigies nine or ten. 



He gaed wi' Jeanie to the tryste, 
He danc'd wi' Jeanie on the down ; 

And, lang ere witless Jeanie wist, 

Her heart was tint, her peace was stown. 



As in the bosom o' the stream, 

The moon-beam dwells at dewy e'en ; 

So trembling pure, was tender love 
Within the breast o' bonnie Jean. 



And now she works her mammie's wark, 
And ay she sighs wi' care and pain ; 

Yet wist na what her ail might be, 
Or what wad mak her weeh again. 



But did na Jeanie's heart loup light, 
And did na joy blink in her e'e, 

As Robie tauld a tale o' love 
Ae e'enin' on the lily lea ? 



The sun was sinking in the west, 
The birds sang sweet in ilka grove ; 

His cheek to hers he fondly prest, 
And whisper'd thus his tale o' love : 



O Jeanie fair, I lo'e thee dear ; 

canst thou think to fancy me ! 
Or wilt thou leave thy mammie's cot, 

And leain to tent the farms wi' me ? 



At barn or byre thou shalt na drudge, 
Or naething else to trouble thee ; 

But stray amang the heather-bells, 
And tent the waving corn wi' me. 



Now what could artless Jeanie do ? 

She had nae will to say him na : 
At length she blush'd a sweet consent, 

And love was ay between them twa. 



CXCIX. 

Tune. — " Robin Adair,' 



[The ladies of the M'Murdo family were graceful and beaufcttoi, 
and lucky in finding a poet capable of recording their ehanr" m 
lasting strains. The heroine of this song was Phillis M'Mui-do 
a favourite of the poet. The verses were composed at the request o? 
Clarke, the musician, who believed himself in love with his '■' charm- 
ing pupil." She laughed at the presumptuous fiddler.j 



"While larks with little wing 

Fann'd the pure air, 
Tasting the breathing spring, 

Forth I did fare: 
Gay the sun's golden eye 
Peep'd o'er the mountains high ; 
Such thy morn ! did I cry, 

Phillis the fair. 



In each bird's careless song, 

Glad, I did share ; 
While yon wild flowers among, 

Chance led me there: 
Sweet to the opening day, 
Rosebuds bent the dewy spray; 
Such thv bloom ! did I say, 

Phillis the fair. 

in. 

Down in a shady walk 

Doves cooing were, 
I mark'd the cruel hawk 

Caught in a snare : 
So kind may fortune be, 
Such make his destiny ! 
He who would injure thee, 

Phillis the fair. 



cc 

^afc IE a ®abs. 

Tune. — " Robin Adair." 



[Alexander Cunningham, on whose unfortunate love-advtntuw 
Bums composed this song for Thomson, was a jeweller in Edinburgh, 
well connected, and of agreeable and polished manners. JThe story 
of his faithless mistress was the talk of Edinburgh, in 1793. whrai 
these words were written : the hero of the lay has been long 6aw| 
the heroine resides, a widow, in Edinburgh.] 



IT ad 1 a cave on some wild, distant shore, 
Where the winds howl to the waves' dashing 
roar ; 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



'203 



There would I weep my woes, 
There seek my lost repose, 

Till grief my eyes should close, 
Ne'er to wake more. 



Falsest of womankind, canst thou declare, 
All thy fond plighted vows — fleeting as air ! 
To thy n< ,w lover hie, 
Laugh o!er thy perjury, 
Then : . thy bosom try 
What peace is there ! 



CCI 

$2 Lilian Stream. 



[" Bravo ! say I," exclaimed Burns, when he wrote these verses for 
Thomson. " It is a good song. Should you think so too, not else, 
you can set the music to it, and let the other follow as English 
verses. Autumn is my propitious season; I make more verses in it 
than all the year else." The old song of " O my love Annie's very 
bonnie," helped the muse of Burns with this lyric] 



By Allan stream I chanced to rove 

While Phoebus sank beyond Benledi ; 
The winds were whispering through the grove, 

The yellow corn was waving ready : 
I listened to a lover's sang, 

And thought on youthfu' pleasures mony : 
And aye the wild wood echoes rang — 

O dearly do I lo'e thee, Annie ! 



happy be the woodbine bower, 

Nae nightly bogle make it eerie ; 
Nor ever sorrow stain the hour, 

The place and time I met my dearie ! 
Her head upon my throbbing breast, 

She, sinking, said, " I'm thine for ever !" 
While mony a kiss the seal imprest, 

The sacred vow, — we ne'er should sever. 



The haunt o' Spring's the primrose brae, 

The Simmer joys the flocks to follow; 
How cheery, thro' her shortening day, 

Is Autumn, in her weeds o' yellow ! 
But can they melt the glowing heart, 

Or chain the soul in speechless pleasure, 
Or thro' each nerve the rapture dart, 

Like meeting her, our bosom's treasure ? 



ecu. 

<D fobtetle, anD I'll come to gou. 



[In one of the variations of this fon« the name of the heroine s 
Jear.ie : the son;? itself owes some of the sentiments as well as worrit 
to an old favourite Nithsdale chaunt of the same name. " 1 1 U fa * 
tle, and I'll come to you, my lad," Burns enquire! of Thomson, " m.t 
of your airs? I admire it much, ar.d yesterday I set the following 
verses to it." The poet, two years afterwards, altered the lourth llud 
thus:— 

" Thy Jeany will venture wi' ye, my lad," 

and assigned this reason : " In fact, a fair dame at who 3 c shrine F, tb 
priest of the Nine, offer up the incense of Parnassus ; a dame win 1 
the Graces have auired in witehciaft, and whom the Loves hb. 
armed with lightning; a fair one, herself the heroine of the song, i> 
sists on the amendment, and dispute her commands if you darc."| 



O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad, 
O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad : 
Tho' father andmither and a' should gae mad, 
O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad. 
But warily tent, when you come to court me, 
And come na unless the back-yett be a-jee : 
Syne up the back-stile and let naebody see, 
And come as ye were na comin' to me. 
And come as ye were na comin' to me. 



At kirk, or at market, whene'er ye meet me, 
Gang by me as tho' that ye car'd na a flie ; 
But steal me a blink. o' your bonnie black e'e, 
Yet look as ye were na lookin' at me. 
Yet look as ye were na lookin' at me. 



Ay vow and protest that ye care na for me, 
And whyles ye may lightly my beauty a wee ; 
But court na anither, tho' jockin' ye be, 
For fear that she wyle your fancy frae me. 
For fear that she wyle your fancy frae me. 
O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad, 
whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad • 
Tho" father and mither and a' should gae mad, 
O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad. 



CCI1I. 
&tiofon fohiUtng Kitl). 



I" Mr. Clarke," says Burns to Thomson, " begs you to give Mis; 
Phillis a corner in your book, as she is a particular flame of nis. Sh* 
is a Miss Phillis M'Murdo, sister to ' Bonnie Jean ; they are both 
pupils of his." This lady afterwards became Mrs. Norman Lock 
hart, of Carnwath.] 



Adown winding Nith I did wandei . 

To mark the sweet flowers as they spring 
Adown winding Nith I did wander, 

Of Phillis to muse and to sing. 



VU4 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



Awa wf youi belles and your beauties, 
They never wi' her can compare : 

Whaever has met wi' my Phillis, 
Has met wi' the queen o' the fair. 



The daisy amus'd my fond fancy, 
So arcless, so simple, so wild ; 

Thou emblem, said I, o' my Phillis, 
For she is simplicity's child. 



The rose-bud's the blush o' my charmer, 
Her sweet balmy lip when 'tis prest : 

How fair and how pure is the lily, 
But fairer and purer her breast. 



Yon knot of gay flowers in the arbour, 
They ne'er wi' my Phillis can vie : 

Her breath is the breath o' the woodbine, 
Its dew-drop o' diamond, her eye. 



Her voice is the song of the morning, 

That wakes thro' the green -spreading grove, 

When Phoebus peeps over the mountains, 
On music, and pleasure, and love. 



But beauty how frail and how fleeting, 

The bloom of a fine summer's day ! 
While worth in the mind o' my Phillis 
Will flourish without a decay. 

Awa wi' your belles and your beauties, 

They never wi' her can compare : 
Whaever has met wi' my Phillis 
Has met wi' the queen o' the fair. 



CCIV 

©omc, let me take tf)ee. 

Air.—" Canld Kail." 



, Burns composed this lyric in August 1/93, and tradition says it 
ivas produced by the charms of Jean Lorimer. "That tune, Cauld 
Kail," he says to Thomson, " is such a favourite of yours, that I once 
more roved out yesterday fora gloamin-shot at the Muses ; when the 
Muse that presides over the shores of Nith, or rather my old inspir- 
ing, dearest nymph, Coila, whis;eredmethe folio vir.g."J 



Come, let me take thee to my breast, 

And pledge we ne'er shall sunder; 
And I shall spurn as vilest dust 

The world's wealth and grandeur : 
And do I hear my Jeanie own 

That equal transports move her ? 
I ask for dearest life alone, 

That I may live to love her. 



Thus in my arms, wi' a' thy charms, 

I ck?p my countless treasure 
I'll seek nae mair o' heaven to share. 

Than sic a moment's pleasure : 
And by thy een, sae bonuie blue, 

I swear I'm thine for ever ! 
And on thy lips I seal my vow, 

And break it shall I never- 



ccv. 

aSamtg Babfe, 



[From the old song of " Daintie Davie" Burns has borrowed orl. 
the title and the measure. The ancient strain records huw die He- 
David Williamson, to escape the pursuit of the dragoons, in the time 
of the persecution, was hid, by the devout Lad, of Cherrytrees, in th* 
same bed with her ailing daughter. The divine lived to have sU 
wives beside the daughter of the Lady of Cherrytrees, and other 
children besides the one which his hiding from the dragoons pro- 
duced. When Charles the Second was told of the adventure and us 
upshot, he is said to have exclaimed, " God's fish ! that beats in 
and the oak : the man ought to be made a bishop."] 



Now rosy May comes in wi' flowers, 
To deck her gay, green-spreading bowers ; 
And now comes in my happy hours, 
To wander wi' my Davie. 

Meet me on the warlock knowe, 

Dainty Davie, dainty Davie, 

There I'll spend the day wi' you. 

1 r y ain dear dainty Davie. 



The crystal waters round us fa', 
The merry birds are lovers a', 
The scented breezes round us blaw, 
A wandering wi' my Davie. 



When purple morning starts the hare 
To steal upon her early fare, 
Then thro' the dews I will repair. 
To meet my faithfu' Davie. 



When day, expiring in the west, 
The curtain draws o' nature's rest, 
I flee to his arms I lo'e best, 
And that's my ain dear Davie. 
Meet me on the warlock knowe, 

Bonnie Davie, dainty Davie, 

There I'll spend the day wi' you, 

My ain dear dainty Davie. 



OF ROBERT 11 URNS. 

CCVT. 
ttruce (o J)te i$len at iUanuockfcurn. 

FIRST VERSION. 

Tune. — " Hey, tuttie tallied 



205 



[Syme of Ryedale states that tliis fine ode was composed during a 
storm of rain and fire, among the wilds of Glenken in Galloway : the 
poet himself gives an account much less romantic. In speaking of 
the air to Thomson, he says, " There is a tradition which I have met 
With in many places in Scotland, that it was Robert Bruce'? inarch 
at the battle of Bannockburn. This thought, in my solitary wan- 
derings, warmed me to a pitch of enthusiasm on the theme of liberty 
find independence, which I threw into a kind of Scottisli ode, fitted 
to the air, that one might suppose to be the royal Scot's address to his 
heroic followers on that eventful morning." It was written in Sep- 
tember, 1/93.] 



Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled, 
Scots, wham Bruce has aften led ; 
Welcome to your gory bed, 
Or to viotorie ! 



Now's the day, and now's the hour; 
See the front o' battle lour : 
See approach proud Edward's pow'r- 
Chains and slaverie! 



Wha will be a traitor-knave ? 
Wha can fill a coward's grave ? 
Wha sae base as be a slave ? 
Let him turn and flee ! 



Wha for Scotland's king and law 
Freedom's sword will strongly draw, 
Freeman stand, or freeman fa', 
Let him follow me ! 



By oppression's woes and pains ! 
By our sons in servile chains ! 
We will drain our dearest veins, 
But they shall be free ! 



Lay the proud usurpers low ! 
Tyrants fall in every foe ! 
Liberty's in every blow ! — 
Let us do or die ! 



ccvir. 

SSatmocfcburn. 

ROBERT BRUCE'S ADDRES9 TO TIIS ARMY 
SECOND VERSION. 



[Thomson acknowledged the eh;irm which this martial and na- 
tional ode had for him, but he disliked the air, and proposed to sub- 
stitute that of Lewis Gordon In iu> place. Hut Lewis Gordon re- 
quired a couple of syllables more In every fourth line, which loaded 
the verse with expletives, and weakened the simple energy ol the 
original: Burns consented to the proper alterations, after a slight le- 
sistance; but when Thomson, having succeeded in this, proposed a 
change in the expression, no warrior of Hruce's day ever resisted 
more sternly the march of a Southron over the border. " The only 
line," says the musician, " which I dislike in the whole song is, 

• Welcome to your gory bed 

gory presents a disagreeable image to the mind, and a prudent general 
would avoid saying anything to his soldiers which might tend to 
make death more frightful than it is." "My ode," replied Hums, 
"pleases me so much that I cannot alter it: your proposed alterations 
would, in my opinion, make it tame." Thomson cries out, like the 
timid wife in Coriolanus, " Oh, God, no blood !" while Burns ex- 
claims, like that Roman's heroic mother, "Yes, blood ! it becomes ? 
soldier more than gilt his trophy." The ode as originally writtec 
was restored afterwards in Thomson's collection.] 



Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled, 
Scots, wham Bruce has aften led ; 
Welcome to your gory bed, 
Or to glorious victorie ! 



Now's the day, and nov's the hour- • 
See the front o' battle lour ; 
See approach proud Edward's power- 
Edward ! chains and slaverie '. 



Wha will be a traitor-knave ? 
Wha can fill a coward's grave ? 
Wha sae base as be a slave ? 

Traitor ! coward ! turn and flee 



Wha for Scotland's king and law 
Freedom's sword will strongly draw. 
Freeman stand, or freeman fa', 
Caledonian ! on wi' me ! 



By oppression's woes and pains ! 
By our sons in servile chains ! 
We will drain our dearest veins, 
But they shall be — shall be free ! 



Lay the proud usurpers low 
Tyrants fall, in every foe ' 
Liberty's in every blow ! 

Forward ! let us do, or die ! 



20fi 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



CCVIII. 

$e|)oIt) tf)e ?^our. 

Tune. — " Oran-gaoil." 



\ " Tne following song I have composed for the Highland air that 
you teli me in your last you have resolved to give a place to in your 
book. I have this moment finished the song, so you have it glowing 
from the mint,' Tnese are the words of Burns to Thomson ; he 
might have added that the song waswritteu on the meditated yjv.ige 
of Clarinda to the "West Indies, to join her husband.] 



Behold the hour, the hoat arrive ; 

Thou goest, thou darling of my heart ! 
Severed from thee can I survive ? 

But fate has will'd, and we must part. 
I'll often greet this surging swell, 

Yon distant isle will often hail : 
" E'en here I took the last farewell ; 

There, latest mark'd her vanish'd sail." 



Along the solitary shore 

"While flitting sea-fowl round me cry, 
Across the rolling, dashing roar, 

I'll westward turn my wistful eye : 
Happy, thou Indian grove, I'll say, 

Where now my Nancy's path may he ! 
While thro' thy sweets she loves to stray. 

O tell me, does she muse on me ? 



CCIX. 

tEfcou f)agt (eft me tbtx. 

Tune. — "Fee him, Father." 



[" 1 do not give these verses," says Burns to Thomson, "for any 
merit they have. 1 composed them at the time in which ' l J atie 
Allan's miiher died, about the back o' midnight,' and by the lee side 
Of a bowl of punch, which had overset every mortal in company, ex- 
cept the hautbois and the muse." To the poet's i 
tuudcians we owe some fine songs.] 



Thou hast left inc ever, Jamie ! 

Thou hast left me ever ; 
Thou hast left me ever, Jamie ! 

Thou hast left me ever. 
Aften hast thou vowed that death 

Only should us sever ; 
Now thou's left thy lass for ay — 

I maun see thee never, Jamie, 
I'll see thee never ! 



Thou hast me forsaken, Jamie ! 

Thou hast me forsaken; 
Thou hast me forsaken, Jamie ' 

Thou hast me forsaken. 



Thou canst love anither jo, 
While my heart is breaking ; 

Soon my weary een I'll close, 
Never mair to waken, Jamie, 
Ne'er mair to waken ! 



ccx. 

SCirtfo Ling <Sjme 



[" Is not the Scotch phrase," Burns writes to Mrs. Dunlop, " Au.ri 
lang syne, exceedingly expressive ? There is an old song and tune 
which has often thrilled through my soul : I shall give you the versea 
on the other sheet. Light be the turf on the breast of the heaven-in- 
spired poet who composed this glorious fragment." '• The following 
song," says the poet, when he communicated it to George Thomson, 
"an old song of the olden times, and which has never been in print, 
nor even in manuscript, until 1 took it down from an old man's sing- 
ing, is enough to recommend any air." These are strong words, Do 
there can be no doubt that, save for a line or two, we owe the so 
to no other minstrel than "minstrel Burns." 1 



Should auld acquaintance be forgot. 

And never brought to min' ? 
Should auld acquaintance be forgot, 
And days o' lang syne ? 

For auld lang syne, my dear, 

For auld lang syne, 
We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet, 
For auld lang syne ! 



We twa hae run about the braes, 

And pu't the gowans fine ; 
But we've wandered mouy a weary foot 

Sin' auld lang S3 _ ne. 



We twa hae paidl't i' the burn, 
Frae mornin' sun till dine : 

But seas between us braid hae roar'd, 
Sin auld lang syne. 



And here's a hand, my trusty fiere, 

And gie's a baud o' thine ; 
And we'll tak a right guid willie-waught. 

For auld lang syne ? 



And surely ye'll be your pint-stowp, 

And surely I'll be mine ; 
And we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet, 
For auld lang syne. 

For auld lang syne, my dear. 

For auld lang syne, 
We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet. 
For auld lang syne ! 







13 . 



n :'s a hand , mv trusty fier 
ies a hand o' 1 trine ■, 

For Aui j Lang sjj 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



207 



OCX I 
JFatr gjennn. 

Tune. — " Saw ye my Father ? 



[In September, 1793, this song, as well as several others, was com- 
municated to Thomson by Burns. " Of the poetry," lie says, " I 
speak with coniidence: but the music is a business where I hint my 
ideas with the utmost diffidence.''j 



Whehe are the joys I have met in the morning, 
That dane'd to the lark's early song ? 

Where is the peace that awaited my wand'ring, 
At evening the wild woods among ? 



No more a-winding the course of yon river, 
And marking sweet flow'rets so fair : 

No more I trace the light footsteps of pleasure, 
But sorrow and sad sighing care. 



Is it that summer's forsaken our valleys, 
And grim, surly winter is near ? 

No, no, the bees' humming round the gay 
Proclaim it the pride of the year. 



Fain would I hide, what I fear to discover, 
Yet long, long too well have I known, 

All that has caused this wreck in my bosom, 
Is Jeany, fair Jeany alone. 



Time cannot aid me, my griefs are immortal, 
Nor hope dare a comfort bestow : 

Come then, enamour'd and fond of my anguish, 
Enjoyment I'll seek in my woe. 



CCXII. 
Bdurjet) j^foam, tfrc pleasure. 



[To the air of the "Collier's dochter," Burns bids Thomson add 
the following old Bacchanal : it is slightly altered from a rather stiff 
original.] 



Deluded swain, the pleasure 
The fickle fair can give thee, 

Is but a fairy treasure — 

Thy hopes will soon deceive thee. 



The billows on the ocean, 
The breezes idly roaming, 

The clouds' uncertain motion — 
They are but types of woman. 



rn. 

O ! art thou not ashamed 
To doat upon a feature ? 

If man thou wouldst be named, 
Despise the silly creature. 



Go, find an honest fellow ; 

Good claret set before thee : 
Hold on till thou art mellow, 

And then to bed in glory. 



CCXIII 

Kancj). 



[nils song was inspired by the charms of Clarmda. In one of the 
poetV manuscripts the song commences thus: 

Thine am I, my lovely Kate, 

Well thou mayest discover 
Every pulse along my veins 

Tell the ardent lover. 

This change was tried out of compliment, it is believed, to Mrs. 
Thomson; but Nancy ran more smoothly on the even road of lyrical 
verse than Ka^e.] 



Thine am I, my faithful fair, 
Thine, my lovely Nancy ; 

Ev'ry pulse along my veins, 
Ev'ry roving fancy. 



To thy bosom lay my heart, 
There to throb and languish : 

Tho' despair had wrung its core, 
That would heal its anguish. 



Take away those rosy lips, 
Rich with balmy treasure 

Turn away thine eyes of love, 
Lest I die with pleasure. 



What is life when wanting love t 
Night without a morning : 

Love's the cloudless summer sun. 
Nature gay adorning. 



Offft 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



CCXIV 

fl?usfran&, p?u$fcanrj. 
Tune. — " Jo Janet." 



f'My.To Janet," in the collection of Allan Ramsay, was in the 
poef s eye when he composed this song, as surely as the matrimonial 
bickerings recorded by the old minstrels were in his mind. He de- 
sires Thomson briefly to tell him how he likes these verses : the re- 
sponse of the musician was, " lnimitable."J 



IIusbaxd, husband, cease your strife, 

Nor longer idly rave, sir ; 
Tho' I am your wedded wife, 

Yet I am not your slave, sir. 
" One of two must still obey, 

Nancy, Nancy; 
Is it man, or woman, say, 

My spouse Nancy ?" 



If 'tis still the lordly word, 

Service and obedience ; 
I'll desert my sov'reign lord, 

And so, good bye, allegiance \ 
" Sad will I be, so bereft, 

Nancy, Nancy ; 
Yet I'll try to make a shift, 

My spouse, Nancy." 



My poor heart then break it must, 

My last hour I'm near it : 
When you lay me in the dust, 

Think, think, how you will bear it. 
"I will hope and trust in heaven, 

Nancy, Nancy ; 
Strength to bear it will be given, 

My spouse, Nancy." 



Well, sir, from the silent dead, 

Still I'll try to daunt you ; 
Ever round your midnight bed 

Ilorrid sprites shall haunt you. 
" I'll wed another, like my dear 

Nancy, Nancy ; 
Then all hell will fly for fear, 

My spouse, Nancy." 



ccxv. 

2£tilt tfjou he mg Dearie. 

Air. — " The Sutor's Dochter." 



(Composed, it is «aid, in honour of Jinct Miller, of Dalswrnton, 
mother to the present Earl of Marr, and then, and long after, one of 
lie loveliest women in thesjuth of Scotland., 



Wilt thou be my dearie ? 

When Borrow wrings thy gentle heart, 



Wilt thou let me cheer the*? ? 
By the treasure of my soul, 
That's the love I bear thee ! 
I swear and vow that only thou 
Shall ever be my dearie. 
Only thou, I swear and vow, 
Shall ever be my dearie. 



Lassie, say thou lo'es me ; 
Or if thou wilt no be my ain, 
Say na thou'lt refuse me : 
If it winna, canna be, 
Thou, for thine may choose me, 
Let me, lassie, quickly die, 
Trusting that thou lo'es me. 
Lassie, let me quickly die, 
Trusting that thou lo'es me. 



CCXV1. 

53ut lateb seen. 
Tune. — ts The winter of life." 



[This song was written for Johnson's Museum, in 1794. * he air 
Is East Indian : it was brought from Hindostan by a particular 
friend of the poet Thomson sec the words to the air of Gil Mortice 
- they are elsewhere set to the tune of the Death of the Linnet.] 



But lately seen in gladsome green, 

The woods rejoiced the day ; 
Thro' gentle showers and laughing flowers. 

In double pride were gay : 
But now our joys are fled 

On winter blasts awa ! 
Yet maiden May, in rich array, 

Again shall bring them a'. 



But my white pow, nae kindly thowe 

Shall melt the snaws of age ; 
My trunk of eild, but buss or beild, 

Sinks in Time's wintry rage. 
Oh ! age has weary days, 

And nights c' sleepless pain ! 
Thou golden time o' youthfu' prime, 

Why comes thou not again ? 



OF ROBIJKT BURNS. 



top 



CCXVil. 

Za i&arg. 

Tune* — "'* Could aught of song.'''' 



I ken thy friends try ilka means, 
Frae wedlock to delay thee ; 

Depending on some higher chance 
But fortune may betray thee. 



(These verses, inspired partly by Hamilton s very tender and e.e- 
gant song, 

" Ah ! the poor shepherd's mournfu. fate, 

and some unrecorded " Mary" of the poet's heart, is in the Utter vo- 
lumes of Johnson. " It is inserted in Johnson's Museum," says Sir 
Harris NV»las, "with the natreof Burns attached.'' He might 
bave added that it was sent by Burns, written with his own hand. J 



Could aught of song declare my pains, 

Could artful numbers move thee, 
The muse should tell, in labour'd strains, 

O Mary, how I love thee ? 
They who but feign a wounded heart 

May teach the lyre to languish ; 
But what avails the pride of art, 

When wastes the soul with anguish ? 



Then let the sudden bursting sigh 

The heart-felt pang discover ; 
And in the keen, yet tender eye, 

O read th' imploring lover. 
For well I know thy gentle mind 

Disdains art's gay disguising; 
Beyond what Fancy e'er refin'd, 

The voice of nature prizing. 



CCXVITT. 

P?cre'# to tbn p^ealtf), mg fcomtU Sags. 

Tune. — " Loggan Burn.'''' 



[" This song is in the Musical Museum, with Burns* name to it," 
jays Sir Harris Nicolas. It is a song of the poet's early days, which 
he trimmed up, and sent to Johnson.) 



Here's to thy health, my bonnie lass, 
Gude night, and joy be wi" thee ; 

I'll come na mair to thy bower-door, 
To tell thee that I lo'e thee. 

dinna think, my pretty pink, 
But I can live without thee : 

1 vow and swear I dinna care 

How lang ye look about ye. 



Thon'rt %y «ae free informing me 
Thou hast na mind to many ; 

I'll be as free informing thee 
Nae time hae 1 to tarry. 



I ken they scorn my low estate , 

But that does never grieve me , 
But I'm as free as any he, 

Sma' siller will relieve me. 
I count my health my greatest wealth, 

Sae long as I'll enjoy it : 
I'll fear na scant, I'll bode nae want, 

As lang's I get employment. 



But far off fowls hae feathers fair, 

And ay until ye try them : 
Tho' they seem fair, still have a care, 

They may prove waur than I am. 
But at twal at night, when the moon shines 
bright, 

My dear, I'll come and see thee; 
For the man that lo'es his mistress weel 

iVae travel makes him weary. 



CCXIX. 



^fy dFarefodl. 



Tune. — "// was a' for our rightfu' king" 



[" It seems very doubtful, says Sir Harris Nicolas, " how much, 
even if any part of this song was written by Burns: it occurs in the 
Musical Museum, but not with his name." Burns, it is believed, 
rather pruned and beautified an old Scottish lyric, than compos**.! 
this strain entirely. Johnson received it from him in his own hand, 
writing.] 



It was a' for our rightfu' king, 
We left fair Scotland's strand ; 

It was a' for our rightfu' king 
We e'er saw Irish land, 

My dear ; 
We e'er saw Irish land. 



Now a' is done that men can dc, 

And a' is done in vain ; 
My love and native land farewell, 

For I maun cross tne main. 
My dear ; 

For I maun cross tho main. 

3 a 



HO 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



lie turned him right, and round about 

Upon the Irish shore ; 
And gae his bridle-reins a shake. 

With adieu for evermore, 
My dear; 

With adieu for evermore. 



The sodger from the wars returns, 
The sailor frae the main ; 

But I hae parted frae my love, 
Never to meet again, 

My dear ; 
Never to meet again. 



When day is gane, and night is come, 
And a' folk bound to sleep ; 

I think on him that's far awa', 
The lee-lang night, and weep, 

My dear ; 
The lee-lang night, and weep. 



ccxx 

<© gteev \}tt up. 

Time. — " steer her up, and hand her gaun" 



[Burns, in composing these verses, took the introductory lines of an 
older lyric, eked them out in his own way, and sent them to the 
Museum ] 



O steer her up and haud her gaun- 

Her mother's at the mill, jo ; 
And gin she winna take a man, 

E'en let her take her will, jo : 
First shore her wi' a kindly kiss, 

And ca another gill, jo, 
A nd gin she take the thing amiss. 

E'en let her flyte her fill, jo. 



O steer her up, and be na blate, 

An' gin she take it ill, jo, 
Then lea'e the lassie till her fate, 

And time nae longer spill, jo : 
Ne' er break your heart for ae rebute, 

But think upon it still, jo 
That gin the lassie winna do't, 

Ye'll fin' anither will, jo. 



CCXXI 

O ag mj) ZMU glje Dangt in?. 

Tune. — 'My wife she danq *»«." 



[Other verses to the same air, belonging to the olden times, are 
still remembered in Scotland: but they are only sung when the wins 
Is in, and the sense of delicacy out. This song is in the Museum.} 



O ay my wife she dang me, 

And aft my wife did bang me, 
If ye gie a woman a' her will, 

Gude faith, she'll soon o'er-gang ye. 
On peace and rest my mind was bent, 

And fool I was I married ; 
But never honest man's intent, 

As cursedly miscarried. 



Some sairie comfort still at last, 

When a' their days are done, man; 
My pains o' hell on earth are past, 

I'm sure o' bliss aboon, man. 
O ay my wife she dang me, 

And aft my wife did bang me, 
If ye gie a woman a' her will, 

Gude faith, she'll soon o'er-gang ye. 



CCXXII. 
0i), foert tfjou in $e canto &Ia*t 

Tune. — <( Lass o' Livislons.** 



[Tradition says his song was composed in honour of Jessie Lcwars, 
the Jessie of the poet's death-bed strains. It is inserted in Thomson's 
collection : variations occur in several manuscripts, but they are 
neither important nor curious. ] 



Oh, wert thou m the cauld blast, 

On yonder lea, on yonder lea, 
My plaidie to the angry airt, 

I'd shelter thee, I'd shelter thee r 
Or did misfortune s uitter storms 

Around thee uiaw, around thee blaw, 
Thy bield should be my bosom, 

To share it a', to share it a'. 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



211 



Or were I in the wildest waste, 

Sae black and bare, sae black and bare, 
The desert were a paradise, 

If thou wert there, if thou wert there : 
Or were I monarch o' the globe, 

Wi' thee to reign, wi' thee to reign, 
The brightest jewel in my crown 

Wad be my queen, wad be my queen. 



CCXXIII. 

ffitte tg tlje ®lem 

Tune. — " Banks of Cree." 



Of the origin of this song the poet gi\es the following account. 
" I got an air, pretty enough, composed by Lady Elizabeth Heron, 
of Heron, which she calls * The Banks of Cree.' Cree is a beautiful 
romantic stream : and as her ladyship is a particular friend of 
nJne, I have written the following song toit."J 



Here is the glen, and here the bower, 
All underneath the birchen shade ; 

The village-bell has told the hour — 
O what can stay my lovely maid ? 



*Tis not Maria's whispering call ; 

'Tis but the balmy-breathing gale, 
Mixed with some warbler's dying fall, 

The dewy star of eve to hail. 



It is Maria's voice I hear ! 

So calls the woodlark in the grove, 
His little, faithful mate to cheer, 

At once 'tis music — and 'tis love. 



And art thou come ? a~d art thou true ? 

O welcome, dear to love and me ! 
And let us all our vows renew 

Along the flow'ry banks of Oree. 



CCXXIV 
<£n tjfre jfceag an& far atoag 

Tune.—" O'er the //i//.?," 8fO. 



[*' The last evening," 29th of Aupubt, 1794, "as I was straying 
cue," says Burns, " and tninking of ' O'er the hills and far away,' I 
gpun the following stanzas for it. I was pleased with several line*, at 
first, but I own now that it appears rather a flimsy business. I give 
you leave to abuse this song, but doit in the spirit of Christian meek- 
ness."] 



How can my poor heart be glad, 
When absent from my sailor lad <* 
How can I the thought forego, 
He's on the seas to meet the foe ? 
Let me wander, let me rove, 
Still my heart is with my love : 
Nightly dreams, and thoughts by day, 
Are with him that's far away. 
On the seas and far away, 
On stormy seas and far away ; 
Nightly dreams, and thoughts by day. 
Are ay with him that's far away. 



When in summer's noon I faint, 
As weary flocks around me pant, 
Haply in this scorching sun 
My sailor's thund'ring at his gun : 
Bullets, spare my only joy ! 
Bullets, spare my darling boy ! 
Fate do with me what you may — 
Spare but him that's far away ! 



At the starless midnight hour, 

When winter rules with boundless power ; 

As the storms the forest tear, 

And thunderg rend the howling air, 

Listening to the doubling roar 

Surging on the rocky shore, 

All I can — I weep and pray, 

For his weal that's far away 



Peace, thy olive wand extend, 
And bid wild war his ravage end, 
Man with brother man to meet, 
And as a brother kindly greet : 
Then may heaven with prosp'rous gal6C 
Fill my sailor's welcome sails, 
To my arms their charge convey — 
My dear lad that's far away, 
On the seas and far away 
On stormy seas and far away ; 
Nightly dreams, and thoughts by day, 
Are ay with him that's far away 



212 



THE POKTlCiAL WORKS 



ccxxv. 

©a' t&e ¥ofefs. 



[Ru»-ii» formed this song upon an old lyric, an amended version of 
which he had previously communicated to the Museum ' he was 
fond of musing in the shadow of Lincluden trwers, and on the 
banks of Cluden Water.l 



Ca' the yowes to the knowes, 

Ca' them whare the heather growes 

Ca' them whare the burnie rowes — 

My bonnie dearie ! 
Hark the mavis' evening sang 
Sounding Cluden's woods amang ! 
Then a faulding let us gang, 

My bonnie dearie. 



We'll gae down by Cluden side, 
Thro' the hazels spreading wide 
O'er the waves that sweetly glide 
To the moon sae clearly. 



Yonder Cluden's silent towers, 
Where at moonshine midnight hours, 
O'er the dewy bending flowers, 
Fairies dance sae cheery. 



Ghaist nor bogle shalt thou fear ; 
Thou'rt to love and heaven sae dear, 
Nocht of ill may come thee near, 
My bonnie dearie. 



Fair and lovely as thou art, 
Thou hast stown my very heart ; 
I can die — but canna part — 

My bonnie dearie ! 
Ca' the yowes to the knowes, 
Ca' them whare the heather growe 
Ca' them whare the burnie rowes- 

My bonnie dearie ! 



ccxxyi. 

-SfK sajis g&e Hohea me best oC a\ 

Tune. — " OnagKs Water-fall." 



The lady of the flaxen ringlets has already been noticed : she is 
dca ribed in thru 3ong with the a^curanv o' a rwirter, and more than 
the usual elegance or' one: it is needJess to «ad her name, or to 
5f>y how fine her form arid how resistless her smiles.] 



Sae flaxen were her ringlets, 
Her eyebrows of a darker 



Bewitclringly o'er-arching 

Twa laughin' een o' bonnie bluo. 
Her smiling sae wyling, 

Wad make a wretch forget bis h'ooj 
What pleasure, what treasure, 

Unto these rosy lips to grow ; 
Such was my Chloris' bonnie face, 

When first her bonnie face I saw ; 
And ay my Chloris 1 dearest charm, 

She says she lo'es me beat of a'. 



Like harmony her motion ; 

Her pretty ankle is a spy 
Betraying fair proportion, 

Wad mak a saint forget the sky. 
Sae warming, sae charming, 

Her faultless form and gracefu' air ; 
Ilk feature — auld Nature 

Declar'd that she could do nae mair : 
Iler's are the willing chains o' love, 

By conquering beauty's sovereign law ; 
And ay my Chloris' dearest charm, 

She says she lo'es me best of a". 



Let others love the r.ity, 

And gaudy shew at sunny noon ,• 
Gie me the lonely valley, 

The dewy eve, and rising moon 
Fair beaming, and streaming, 

Her silver light the boughs amang ; 
While falling, recalling, 

The amorous thrush concludes his sang : 
There, dearest Chloris, wilt thou rove 

By wimpling burn and leafy shaw, 
And hear my vows o' truth and love, 

And say thou lo'es me best of a'. 



CCXXVII. 

(quasi dicat phillis.) 
Tune. — " When she cam ben she bobbit.'' 



I The despairing swain in this song was Stephen Clarkft, musician, 
d the young lady whom he persuaded Burns to accuse of in con- 
tncy and coldness was Phillis M'Murdo.J 



O saw ye. my dear, my Pheiy ? 
saw ye my dear, my Phely ? 
She's down i' the grove, she's \vi' a new love 
She winna come hame to her Willy. 



What says she, my dearest j my Phely ? 
What says she, my dearest, my Phely i 
She lets thee to wit that she has thee forgot, 
And for ever disowns thee, her" Willy. 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



213 



had I ne'er seen thee, my Phely ! 
had I ne'er seen thee, my Phely ! 
As light as the air, and fause as thou's fair 
Thou's broken the heart o' thy Willy. 



CCXXVTIL 

fJoto lang nnfi orearg fe tf)e 'Ntgfjt. 

Tune. — " Cauld Kail in Aberdeen." 



On comparing this lyric, corrected for Thomson, with that in the 
Museum, it will be seen that the former lias more of elegance and 
order: the latter quite as much nature and truth : but there is less 
jf the new than of the old in both.l 



How lang and dreary is the night, 

When I am frae my dearie ; 
I restless lie frae e'en to morn, 
Though I were ne'er sae weary. 

For oh ! her lanely nights are lang; 

And oh, her dreams are eerie ; 

And oh, her widow'd heart is sair, 

That's absent frae her dearie. 



When I think on the lightsome days 
I spent wi' thee, my dearie ; 

And now what seas between us roar — 
How can I be but eerie ? 



How slow ye move, ye heavy hours ; 

The joyless day how dreary ! 
It was na sae ye glinted by, 
When I was wi' my dearie. 

For oh ! her lanely nights are lang ; 

And oh, her dreams are eerie ; 

And oh, her widow'd heart is sair, 

That's absent frae her dearie. 



CCXXIX. 

3Ut not Woman t'tv complain. 

Tune. — "Duncan Gray." 



i " These English songs," tnus complains the poet, in the letter 
which conveyed this lyric to Thomson, "gravel me to death: I 
ha re not that command of the language that I have of my native 
toi.gue. I have been at 'Duncan Gray," to dress it in English, but 
all I can do is deplorably stupid. For instance:"] 



Let not woman e'er complain 
Of inconstancy in love ; 

Let not woman e'er complain 
Fickle man is apt to tovo ; 



Look abroad through nature's range, 
Nature's mighty law is change ; 
Ladies, would it not be strange 

Man should then a monster prove P 



Mark the winds, and mark the skies : 
Ocean's ebb, and ocean's flow : 

Sun and moon but set to rise, 

Round and round the seasons go . 

Why then ask of silly man 

To oppose great nature's plan ? 

We'll be constant while we can — 
You can be no more, you know. 



cexxx. 

Z\)t &ob«'g JWornmo; jEalute to gtg 
0ti$txm. 

Tune.— "Deil tdk the Wars." 



[Bums has, in one of his letters, partly intimated that this morning 
salutation to Chloris was occasioned by sitting till the dawn t& 
the punch-bowl, and walking past her window on his way home. | 



Sleep' st thou, or wak'st thou, fairest creature r 

Rosy Morn now lifts his eye, 
Numbering ilka bud which nature 

Waters wi' the tears o' joy : 

Now through the leafy woods, 

And by the reeking floods, 
Wild nature's tenants freely, gladly stray ; 

The lintwhite in his bower 

Chants o'er the breathing flower ; 

The lav' rock to the sky 

Ascends wi' sangs o' joy, 
While the sun and thou arise to bless the day. 



Phoebus gilding the brow o' morning, 

Banishes ilk darksome shade, 
Nature gladdening and adorning ; 

Such to me my lovely maid. 

When absent frae my fair, 

The murky shades o' care 
With starless gloom o'ercast my sullen sky , 

But when, in beauty's light, 

She meets my ravish'd sight, 

When thro' my very heart 

Her beaming glories dart — 
"lis then I wake to life, to light, and joy. 



3 r 



214 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



Air.- 



CCXXXI. 
©frlorte. 

My lodging is on the cold ground." 



[The origin of this Eong is thus told by Burns to Thomson. " On 
my visit the other day to my fair Chloris, that is the poetic name of 
the lovely goddess of my inspiration, she suggested an idea which I, 
on my return from the visit, wrought into the following song." The 
poetic elevation of Chloris is great : she lived, when her charms faded, 
in want, and died all but destitute.] 



My Chloris, mark how green the groves, 
The primrose banks how fair : 

The balmy gales awake the flowers, 
And wave thy flaxen hair. 



The lav'rock shuns the palace gay, 
And o'er the cottage sings ; 

For nature smiles as sweet, I ween, 
To shepherds as to kings. 



Let minstrels sweep the skilfu' string 

In lordly lighted ha' : 
The shepherd stops his simple reed, 

Blythe, in the birken shaw. 



The princely revel may survey 
Our rustic dance wi' scorn ; 

But are their hearts as light as ours, 
Beneath the milk-white thorn ? 



The shepherd, in the flow'ry glen. 
In shepherd's phrase will woo : 

The courtier tells a finer tale — 
But is his heart as true ? 



These wild-wood flowers I've pu'd, to deck 

That spotless breast o' thine : 
The courtier's gems may witness love — 

But 'tis na love like mine. 



CCXXXII 
©J)loe. 

Air. — " Daintie DavieP 



\ Burns, despairing to fit some of the airs with such verses of ori- 
ginal manufacture as Thomson required, for the English part of his 
collection, took the liberty of bestowing a Southron dress on some 
genuine Caledonian lyrics. The origin of this song may be found 
'n Ramsay's miscellany : the bombast is abated, and the whole much 
unproved.] 



I. 

It was the charming month of May, 
When all the flow'rs were fresh and gay, 
One morning, by the break of day, 



The youthful, charming Ohloe 

From peaceful slumber she arose, 

Girt on her mantle and her hose, 

And o'er the flowery mead she goes, 

The youthful, charming Chloe. 

Lovely was she by the dawn, 

Youthful Chloe, charming Chloe, 
Tripping o'er the pearly lawn. 
The youthful, charming Chloe. 



The feather'd people you might see, 
Perch'd all around, on every tree, 
In notes of sweetest melody 

They hail the charming Chloe ; 
Till, painting gay the eastern skies, 
The glorious sun began to rise, 
Out-rivall'd by the radiant eyes 
Of youthful, charming Chloe. 
Lovely was she by the dawn, 

Youthful Chloe, charming Chloe, 
Tripping o'er the pearly lawn, 
The youthful, charming Chloe. 



CCXXXIII. 

Eaj3$U tot' tije 2Unt.foJ)tte 3£ocfe<5. 

Tune. — " Rothemurche's Rant" 



[" Conjugal love," says the poet, " is a passion which I deeply feel 
and highly venerate : but somehow it does not make such a figure in 
poesie as that other species of the passion, where love is liberty and 
nature law. Musically speaking, the first is an instrument of which 
the gamut is scanty and confined, but the torus inexpressibly sweet, 
while the last has powers equal to all the intellectual modulations of 
the human soul." It must be owned that the bard could render very 
pretty reasons for his rapture about Jean Lorimer.] 



Lassie wi' the lint- white locks, 

Bonnie lassie, artless lassie, 
Wilt thou wi' me tent the flocks ? 
Wilt thou be my dearie, O ? 
Now nature deeds the flowery lea, 

And a' is young and sweet like thee; 
wilt thou share its joy wi' me, 
And say thou' It be my dearie, ? 



And when the welcome simmer-shower 
Has cheer'd ilk drooping little flower, 
We'll to the breathing woodbine bower 
At sultry noon, my dearie, O. 



When Cynthia lights, wi' silver ray, 
The weary shearer's hameward way 3 
Thro' yellow waving fields we'll stray, 
Aad talk o' love, my dearie, O. 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



2U 



And when the howling wintry blast 
Disturbs my lassie's midnight rest ; 
Enclasped to my faithfu' breast, 
I'll comfort thee, my dearie, O. 
Lassie wi' the lint-white locks, 

Bonnie lassie, artless lassie, 

Wilt thou wi' me tent the flocks ? 

Wilt thou be my dearie, O ? 



CCXXXTV 
jFarefoell thou j&tream. 

Air. — " Nancy's to the greenwood gane." 



! This sols was writtenln November, 1794: Thomson pronounced 
it excellent.! 



Farewell thou stream that winding flows 

Around Eliza's dwelling ! 
mem'ry ! spare the cruel throes 

Within my bosom swelling: 
Condemn'd to drag a hopeless cham, 

And yet in secret languish, 
To feel a fire in ev'ry vein, 

Nor dare disclose my anguish. 



Love's veriest wretch, unseen, unknown, 

I fain my griefs would cover : 
The bursting sigh, th' unweeting groan, 

Betray the hapless lover. 
I know thou doom'st me to despair, 

Nor wilt, nor canst relieve me ; 
But oh, Eliza, hear one prayer — 

For pity's sake forgive me ! 



The music of thy voice I heard, 

Nor wist while it enslav'd me ; 
I saw thine eyes, yet nothing fear'd, 

'Till fears no more had sav'd me : 
The unwary sailor thus aghast, 

The wheeling torrent viewing ; 
'Mid circling horrors sinks at last 

In overwhelming ruin. 



ccxxxv 

© WNfi. fcappg be t&at I 

Tune.—" The Sow's Tail." 



["This morning," (19th November, 1/94,) " though a keen blow- 
ing frost," Hums writes to Thomson, " in my walk before breakfaot 
1 finished my duet: whether I have uniformly succeeded, I will not 
say: but here it is for you, though it is not an hour old."j 



O Philly, happy be that day, 
When roving through the gather'd hay, 
My youthfu' heart was stown away, 
And by thy charms, my Philly . 



O Willy, ay I bless the grove 
Where first I own'd my maiden love, 
Whilst thou didst pledge the powers above, 
To be my ain dear Willy. 



As songsters of the early year 
Are ilka day mair sweet to hear. 
So ilka day to me mair dear 
And charming is my 1 hilly. 



As on the brier the budding rose 
Still richer breathes and fairer blows 
So in my tender bosom grows 
The love I bear my Willy. 



The milder sun and bluer sky 
That crown my harvest cares wi' joy, 
Were ne'er sae welcome to my eye 
As is a sight o' Philly. 



The little swallow's wanton wing, 
Tho' wafting o'er the flowery spring. 
Did ne'er to me sic tidings bring, 
As meeting o' my Willy. 



The bee that thro' the sunny hour 
Sips nectar in the opening flower, 
Compar'd wi' my delight is poor, 
Upon the lips o' Philly. 



The woodbine in the dewy weet 
When evening shades in silence meet, 
Is nocht sae fragrant or sae sweet 
As is a kiss o' Willy. 



21(5 



THE POKTICAL WORKS 



Let Fortune's wheel at random rin, 
And fools may tyne, and knaves may win ; 
My thoughts are a' bound up in ane, 
And that's my ain dear Philly. 



What's a' the joys that gowd can gie ! 
I care na wealth a single flie ; 
The lad I love's the lad for me, 
And that's my ain dear Willy. 



CCXXXVI. 

@cmt<mtrti foP 3UttU. 

Tune. — " Lumps o' Pudding.'* 



I Bui ns was an admirer of many scngs wnich tne more critical 
and fastidious regarded as rude and homely. " Todlin Hame" he 
cailed an unequalled composition for wit and humour, and " .Andro 
wi' his cutty Gun," the work of a master. In the same letter, where 
he records these sentiments, he writes his own inimitable song, 
■ Consented wi' Little."", 



Contented wi' little, and cantie wi' ma-ir, 
Whene'er I forgather wi' sorrow and care, 
I gie them a skelp, as they're creepin alang, 
Wi' a cog o' guid swats, and an auld Scottish 
sang. 



1 whyles claw the elbow o' troublesome thought; 
But man is a sodger, and life is a faught : 
My mirth and guid humour are coin in my pouch, 
And my freedom's my hardship nae monarch 
dare touch. 



A towmond o' trouble, should that be my fa', 
A night o' guid fellowship sowthers it a' : 
When at the blithe end o' our journey at last, 
Wha the deil ever thinks o' the road he has past ? 



Blind chance, let her snapper and stoyte on her 

way; 
Be't to me, be't frae me, e'en let the jade gae : 
Come ease, or come travail ; come pleasure or 

pain ; 
My warst word is — *' Welcome, and welcome 

again !" 



CCXXXVII. 
<£ansst tijott Seabe me t|)U£. 

Tune. — "Roy's Wife." 



[When Burns transcribed the following song for Thomson, on the 
20th of November, 1794. he added, " Well ! I think this to be done 
in two or three turns across my room, and with two or three pinches 
of Irish blackguard, is not. so far, amiss. You see I am resolved to 
have my quantum of applause from somebody." The poet in this 
song complains of the coldness of Mrs. Riddel : the lady replied in a 
strain equally tender and forgiving.] 



Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy r 
Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy ? 
Well thou know'st my aching heart — 
And canst thou leave me thus for pity : 
Is this thy plighted, fond regard, 

Thus cruelly to part, my Katy ? 
Is this thy faithful swain's reward — 
An aching, broken heart, my Katy ! 



Farewell ! and ne'er such sorrows tear 
That fickle heart of thine, my Katy ! 
Thou may'st find those will love thee dear — 
But not a love like mine, my Katy ! 
Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy ? 
Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy ? 
Well thou know'st my aching heart — 
And canst thou leave me thus for pity ? 



ccxxxvrix. 

JHg HamuV* afoa. 

Tune. — " There'll never be peace? 



[Clarinda, tradition avers, was the inspirer of this song, whWi the 
poet composed in December, 1794, for the work of Thomson. I lis 
thoughts were often in Edinburgh : on festive occasions, when, as 
Campbell beautifully says, " The wine-cup shines in light," he seV- 
clom forgot to toast Mrs. Mac.J 



Now in her green mantle blythe nature arrays, 
And listens the lambkins that bleat o'er the- 

braes, 
While birds warble welcome in ilka green shaw; 
But to me it's delightless — my Nannie's awa ! 



The snaw-drap and primrose our woodlands 

adorn, 
And violets bathe in the weet o' the morn ; 
They pain my sad bosom, sac sweetly they blaw, 
The mind me o' Nannie— and Nannie's awa ! 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



21* 



Thou iav'rock that springs frae the dews of the 

lawn, 
The shepherd to warn o' the gray-breaking dawn, 
And thou mellow mavis that hails the night fa', 
Give over for pity — my Nannie's awa ! 



Come autumn, sae pensive, in yellow and gray, 
And soothe me with tidings o' nature's decay : 
The dark dreary winter, and wild driving snaw, 
Alane can delight me — now Nannie's awa ! 



CCXXXIX. 

<& fojja te gfje tftat io'eg me. 

Tune. — " Moray." 



[ <c This song, ' says Sir Harris Nicolas, " is said, in Thomson's col- 
lection, to have been writsen for that work by Burns: but it is not 
included in Mr. Cunningham's edition." If Sir Harris would be so 
good as to look at page 245, vol. V., of Cunningham's edition of Burns, 
lie will find the song: and if he will look at page 28, and page 193 
of vol 111. of his own edition, he will find that he has not committed 
the error of which he accuses his fellow-editor, for he has inserted the 
same song twice. The same may be said of the song to Chloris, 
which Sir Harris has printed at page 312, vol. II., and at page IH9, 
vol. III., and of " Ae day a t>raw wooer came down the lang glen," 
which appears both at page 224 of vol, II., andac page lo3 of vol. III. J 



wha is she that lo'es me, 

And has my heart a-keeping ? 
sweet is she that lo'es me, 
As dews o' simmer weeping, 
In tears the rose-buds steeping ! 

O that's the lassie o' my heart, 

My lassie ever dearer ; 
O that's the queen of womankind, 
And ne'er a ane to peer her. 



If thou shalt meet a lassie 
In grace and beauty charming, 

That e'en thy chosen lassie, 

Erewhile thy breast sae warming, 
Had ne'er sic powers alarming. 



If thou hadst heard her talking, 
And thy attentions plighted, 

That ilka body talking, 
But her by thee is slighted, 
And thou art all delighted. 



If thou hast met this fair one ; 
When "frae her thou hast parted, 

If every other fair one, 

But her, thou hast deserted, 
And thou art broken-hearted ; 



O that's the lassie o' my heart, 

My lassie ever dearer ; 
O that's the queen o* womankind, 

And ne'er a ane to peer her. 



CCXL. 

<£alet)oma. 

Tune. — "Caledonian Hunt's Delight.'' 



[There is both knowledge of history and elegance of allegory i 
this singular lyric: it was first printed by Currie.J 



There was once a day — but old Time th?.n was 
young— 

That brave Caledonia, the chief of her line, 
From some of your northern deities sprung, 

(Who knows not that brave Caledonia's 
divine ?) 
From Tweed to the Orcades was her domain, 

To hunt, or to pasture, or do what she would 
Her heav'nly relations there fixed her reign, 

And pledg'd her their godheads to warrant it 

good. 

EX. 

A lambkin in peace, but a lion in war, 

The pride of her kindred the heroine grew 
Her grandsire, old Odin, triumphantly swore 
"Whoe'er shall provoke thee, th' encounter 
shall rue ! " 
"With tillage or pasture at times she would sport. 
To feed her fair flocks by her green rustling 
corn ; 
But chiefly the woods were her fav'rite resort, 
Her darling amusement, the hounds and t.hf 2 
horn. 



Long quiet she reign'd ; till thitherward steers 

A flight of bold eagles from Adria's strand : 
Repeated, successive, for many long years, 

They darken'd the air, and they plundered the 
land: 
Their pounces were murder, and terror their cry, 

They'd conquer'd and ruin'd a world beside ; 
She took to her hills, and her arrows let fly — 

The daring invaders they fled or they died. 



The fell harpy-raven took wing from the noi-th, 
The scourge of the seas, and the dread of the 
shore ; 
The wild Scandinavian boar issu'd forth 

To wanton in carnage, and wallow in gore ; 
O'er countries and kingdoms their fury prevail'd, 
No arts could appease them, no arms could 
repel ; 
But brave Caledonia in vain they assailed, 
As Largs well can witness, and Loncartie tell 
3 s 



2!« 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



The Camelcon-savage disturbed lior repose, 

With tumult, disquiet, rebellion, and strife; 
Provok'd beyond bearing, at last she arose, 

And robb'd him at once of his hope and his 
life : 
The Anglian lion, the terror of France, 

Oft prowling, ensanguin'd the Tweed's silver 
flood : 
But, taught by the bright Caledonian lance, 

He learned to fear in his own native wood. 



Thus bold, independent, unconquer'd, and free, 

Her bright course of glory for ever shall run : 
For brave Caledonia immortal must be ; 

I'll prove it from Euclid as clear as the sun : 
Rectangle-triangle, the figure we'll choose, 

The upright is Chance, and old Time is the 
base ; 
But brave Caledonia's the hypothenuse ; 

Then ergo, she'll match them, and match them 
always. 



ccxli. 

<D lag tfjn 3loof tn mttu, &m. 

Tune. — " Cordwainer^s March." 



[The air to which these verses were written, is commonly played 
at Hi e Saturnalia of the shoemakers on King Crispin's day. Burns 
sent it to the Museum/ 



O lay thy loof in mine, lass, 

In mine lass, in mine, lass ; 

And swear on thy white hand, lass, 

That thou wilt be my ain. 
A slave to love's unbounded sway, 
He aft has wrought me meikle wae ; 
But now he is my deadly fae, 

Unless thou be my ain. 



There's monie a lass has broke my rest, 
That for a blink I hae lo'cd best ; 
L>ut thou art queen within my breast, 
For ever to remain. 

O lay thy loof in mine, lass : 
In mine, lass, in mine, lass ; 
And swear on thy white hand, lass, 
That thou wilt be my ain. 



CCXLIL 

Tune. — " Killicrankic* 



[Written to introduce the name of Cunninghame, of Euterkin, re 
the public. Tents were erected on the banks of Ayr, decorated wi& 
shrubs, and strewn with flowers, most of the names of note is 
the district were invited, and a splendid entertainment took place? 
but no dissolution of parliament followed as was expectedj and the 
Lord of Enterkin, who was desirous of a seat among the " Com- 
mons," poured out his wine in vain.] 



O wha will to Saint Stephen's house, 

To do our errands there, man ? 
O wha will to Saint Stephen ? s house, 

O' th' merry lads of Ayr, man ? 
Or will we send a man-o'-law ? 

Or will we send a sodger? 
Or him wha led o'er Scotland a* 

The meikle Ursa-Major ? 



Come, will ye court a noble lord, 

Or buy a score o' lairds, man ? 
For worth and honour pawn their word, 

Their vote shall be Glencaird's, man ? 
Ane gies them coin, ane gies them wine, 

Anither gies them clatter ; 
Anbank, wha guess'd the ladies' taste, 

He gies a Fete Champetre. 



When Love and Beauty heard the news, 

The gay green- woods amang, man ; 
Where gathering flowers and busking bowers, 

They heard the blackbird's sang, man; 
A vow, they seal'd it with a kiss 

Sir Politicks to fetter, 
As their's alone, the patent-bliss, 

To hold a Fete Champetre. 



Then mounted Mirth, on gleesome wing, 

O'er hill and dale she flew, man ; 
Ilk wimpling burn, ilk crystal spring, 

Ilk glen and shaw she knew, man i 
She summon' d every social sprite, 

That sports by wood or water. 
On th' bonny banks of Ayr to meet, 

And keep this Fete Champetre. 



Cauld Boreas, wi' his boisterous crew, 

Were bound to stakes like kye, man ; 
And Cynthia's car, o' silver fu', 

Clamb up the starry sky, man : 
Reflected beams dwell in the streams, 

Or down the current shatter ; 
The western breeze steals thro' the trees, 

To view this Fete Champetre. 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



219 



How many a robe sae gaily floats ! 

What sparkling jewels glance, man ! 
To Harmony's enchanting notes, 

As moves the mazy dance, man. 
The echoing wood, the winding flood, 

Like Paradise did glitter, 
When angels met, at Adam's yett, 

To hold their Fete Champetre. 



When Politics came there, to mix 

And make his ether-stane, man ! 
He circled round the magic ground, 

But entrance found he nane, man : 
He blushed for shame, he quat his name, 

Forswore it, every letter, 
Wi' humble prayer to join and share 

This festive Fete Champetre. 



CCXLIII. 

Tune. — " Here's a Health to them that's awa." 



[The Charlie of this song was Charles Fox ; Tammie was Lord 
Etnkine; and M'Leod, the maiden name of the Countess of Loudon, 
wtw then, as now, a name of influence boch in the Highlands and 
Lowlands. The buff and blue of the Whigs had triumphed over the 
white rose of Jacobitism in the heart of Burns, when he wrote these 
verses.] 



Here's a health to them that's awa, 

Here's a health to them that's awa ; 

And wha winna wish guid luck to our cause, 

May never guid luck be their fa' ! 

It's guid to be merry and wise 

It's guid to be honest and true, 

It's guid to support Caledonia's cause, 

And bide by the buff and the blue. 



Here's a health to them that's awa, 

Here's a health to them that's awa. 

Here's a health to Charlie the chief of the clan, 

Altho' that his band be sma'. 

May liberty meet wi' success ! 

May prudence protect her frae evil ! 

May tyrants and tyranny tine in the mist, 

And wander their way to the devil ! 



Here's a health to them that's awa, 

Here's a health to them that's awa; 

Here's a health to Tammie, the Norland laddie, 

That lives at the lug o' the law ! 



Here's freedom to him tliat wad read, 
Here's freedom to him that wad write ! 
There's nane ever fear'd tiiat the truth should 

be heard, 
But they wham the truth wad indite. 



Here's a health to them that's awa, 
Here's a health to them that's awa, 
Here's Chieftain M'Leod, a chieftain worth 

gowd, 
Tho' bred amang mountains o' snaw ! 
Here's a health to them that's awa, 
Here's a health to them that's awa ; 
And wha winna wish guid luck to our caus« 
May never guid luck be their fa* ! 



CCXLIV. 
3fe t$m, for f>one#t ^ofwtg. 

Tune. — ** For a? that, and a' that." 



[In this noble lyric Burns has vindicated the natural right of h'a 
species. He modestly says to Thomson, " I do not give you this 
song for your book, but merely by way of vive la bagatelle ; for the 
piece is really not poetry, but will be allowed to be two or three 
pretty good prose thought^ inverted into rhyme." Thomson took 
the song, but hazarded no praise.] 



Is there, for honest poverty, 

That hangs his head, and a' that ! 
The coward-slave, we pass him by, 

We dare be poor for a' that ! 
For a' that, and a' that, 

Our toils obscure, and a*' that; 
The rank is but the guinea's stamp, 

The man's the gowd for a' that ! 



What tho' on hamely fare we dine, 

AVear hoddin gray, and a' that ; 
Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine, 

A man's a man, for a' that ! 
For a' that, and a' that, 

Their tinsel show, and a' that ; 
The honest man, though e'er sae poor, 

Is king o' men for a' that ! 



Ye see yon birkie, ca'd — a lord, 

Wha struts, and stares, and a' that ; 
Though hundreds worship at his word, 

He's but a coof for a' that : 
For a' that, and a' that, 

His riband, star, and a' that. 
The man of independent mind. 

He looks and laughs at a' that 



220 



THE POETICAL WOKKS 



A king can make a belted knight, 

A marquis, duke, and a' that, 
But an honest man's aboon his might, 

Guid faith he mauna fa' that ! 
For a' that, and a' that, 

Their dignities, and a' that, 
The pith o' sense, and pride o' worth, 

Are higher ranks than a' that. 



Then let us pray that come it may — 

As come it will for a' that — 
That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth, 

May bear the gree, and a' that , 
For a' that, and a' that, 

It's coniin' yet for a' that, 
That man to man, the warld o'er, 

Shall brothers be for a' that ! 



CCXLV, 



L Craigie-burn Wood was written for George Thomson : the heroine 
was Jean Lorimer. How often the blooming looks and elegant forms 
5f very indifferent characters, lend a lasting lustre to painting and 
Doetry.] 



Sweet fa's the eve on Craigie-burn, 
And blithe awakes the morrow ; 

But a' the pride o' spring's return 
Can yield me nocht but sorrow. 



I see the flowers and spreading trees, 
I hear the wild birds singing ; 

But what a weary wight can please, 
And care his bosom wringing ? 



Fain, fain would I my griefs impart, 
Yet dare na for your anger ; 

But secret love will break my heart, 
If I conceal it langer. 



If thou refuse to pity me, 

If thou shalt love anither, 
Wii,«i ytm green leaves fade frae the tree, 

Arcana my grave they'll wither. 



CCXLVT. 

3£a0«3t'e, art tfxrn sleeping get. 

Tune. — " Let me in this ae night" 



[The thoughts of Burns, it is said, wandered to the fair Mrs. Rid 
del, of Woodleigh Park, while he composed this song for Thcinsoii, 
The idea is taken from an old lyric, of more spirit than decorum, j 



O lassie, art thou sleeping yet, 
Or art thou waking, I would wit ? 
For love has bound me hand and foot, 
And I would fain be in, jo. 
O let me in this ae night, 
This ae, ae, ae night ; 
For pity's sake this ae night, 
O rise and let me in, jo ! 



Thou hear'st the winter wind and weet 
Nae star blinks thro' the driving sleet : 
Tak pity on my weary feet, 

And shield me frae the rain, jo. 



The bitter blast that round me blaw.% 
Unheeded howls, unheeded fa's ; 
The cauldness o' thy heart's the cause 
Of a' my grief and pain, jo. 
O let me in this ae night, 

This ae, ae, ae night ; 
For pity's sake this ae night, 
O rise and let me in, jo ! 



CCXLVII. 
tell na me o' &&i\\b anU Matn. 



[The poet's thoughts, as rendered in the lady's answer, are, at all 
events, not borrowea from the sentiments expressed by Mr*. R :J iel» 
alluded to in song CCXXXVII : there she is tender and forgiving: 
here she is stern and cold.] 



O tell na me o' wind and rain. 
Upbraid na me wi' cauld disdain ! 
Gae back the gate ye cam again, 
I winna let you in, jo. 

I tell you now this ae night, 

This ae, ae,ae night. 
And ance for a' this ao wfct ; 
I winna let you in, jo I > 









OF ROBERT BURNS. 



221 



The snellest blast, at mirkest hours, 
That round the pathless wandVer pours, 
Is A:>cns to what poor she endures, 
iAiat's trusted faithless man, jo. 



The sweetest flower that deck'd the mead, 
Now trodden like the vilest weed : 
Let simple maid the lesson read, 
The weird may be her ain, jo. 



The bird that charm'd his summer-day, 
Is now the cruel fowler's prey ; 
Let witless, trusting woman say 
How aft her fate's the same, jo. 
I tell you now this ae night, 

This ae, ae, ae night ; 
And ance for a' this ae night, 
I winna let you in, jo ! 



CCXLVIII. 

Z\)t Bumftieg Volunteers* 

Tune — " Ptish about the jorum." 



'This national song was composed in April, 1795. The poet had 
been at a public meeting, where he was less joyous than usual : as 
something had been expected from him, he made these verses, when 
he. went home, and sent them, with his compliments, to Mr. Jack- 
sen, editor of the Dumfries Journal. The original, through the 
kindness of my friend, James Milligan, Esq., is now before me.] 



Does haughty Gaul invasion threat ? 

Then let the loons beware, Sir, 
There's wooden walls upon our seas, 

And volunteers on shore, Sir. 
The Nith shall run to Corsincon, 

And Criffel sink in Solway, 
Ere we permit a foreign foe 

On British ground to rally ! 



O let us not, like snarling tykes, 

In wrangling be divided ; 
Till slap come in an unco loon 

And wi ; a rung decide it. 
Be Britain still to Britain true, 

Amang oursels united ; 
For never but by British hands 

Maun British wrangs be righted ! 



The" kettle o' the kirk and state, 
Perhaps a clout may fail in*t ; 

But deil a foreign tinkler loon 
Shall ever ea' a nail in't. 



Our fathers* bluid the kettle bought, 
And wha wad dare to spoH ft ', 

By heaven ! the sacrilegious dog 
Shall fuel be to boil it. 



The wretch that wad a tyrant nwn, 

And the wretch his true-born brother. 
Who would set the mob aboon the throne, 

May they be damned together! 
Who will not sing, " God save the King," 

Shall hang as high's the steeple ; 
But while we sing, tl God save the Kim*," 

"We'll ne'er forget the people. 



CCXLIX. 

&&tireg5$ to tfte 3&oo&«2Larft. 

Tune. — K Where' 11 bonnie Ann lie." 



| The old song to the same air is yet remembered : but the humour 
is richer than the delicacy ; the same may be said cf many a£ the 
fine hearty lyrics of the elder days of Caledonia. These venes wejfl 
composed in May, 1795, for Thomson.] 



stay, sweet warbling wood-lark, stay i 
Nor quit for me the trembling spray ; 
A hapless lover courts thy lay, 
Thy soothing fond complaining. 



Again, again that tender part, 
That I may catch thy melting art ; 
For surely that would touch her heart, 
Wha kills me wi' disdaining. 



Say, was thy little mate unkind, 
And heard thee as the careless wind ? 
Oh, nocht but love and sorrow jokrd, 
Sic notes o' woe could wauken. 



Thou tells o' never-ending care ; 
O' speechless grief and dark despair : 
For pity's sake, sweet bird, nae mair I 
Or my poor heart is broken ! 



3 r. 



'>22 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



CCL. 
On (S^lorfe Being III. 

Tune. — " Ay wakin\ O." 



[An old and once popular lyric suggested this brief and happy song 
for Thomson: some of the verses deserve to be held in remembrance. 
Ay waking, oh, 

Waking ay and weary; 
Sleep I canna get 

For thinking o' my dearie.] 



Long, long the night, 

Heavy comes the morrow, 
While my soul's delight 

Is on her bed of sorrow. 
Can I cease to care ? 

Can I cease to languish ? 
While my darling fair 

Is on the couch of anguish ? 



Every hope is fled, 
Every fear is terror; 

Slumber even I dread, 
Every dream is horror. 



Hear me, Pow'rs divine ! 

Oh, in pity hear me ! 
Take aught else of mine, 
But my Chloris spare me ! 
Long, long the night, 

Heavy comes the morrow, 
While my soul's delight 
Is on her bed of sorrow 



CCLI. 

©aletionta. 

Tune. — " Humours of Glen." 



| Love of country often mingles in the lyric strains of Burns with 
his persona, attachments, and In few more beautifully than in the 
following, written for Thomson : the heroine was Mrs. Burns.] 



Their groves o' sweet myrtle let foreign lands 
reckon, 
Where bright-beaming summers exalt the 
perfume ; 
Far dearer to me yon lone glen o' green brockan, 
Wi' the burn stealing under the lang yellow 
broom : 



Far dearer to me are ycr humble broom bowers, 
Where the blue-bell and go wan lurk lo^ly 
unseen ; 
For there, lightly tripping amang the wil^ 
flowers, 
A listening the linnet, aft wanders my Jean. 



Tho' rich is the breeze in their gay sunny valleys, 

And cauld Caledonia's blast on the wave; 
Their sweet-scented woodlands that skirt the 
proud palace, 
What are they ? — The haunt of the tyrant 
and slave ! 
The slave's spicy forests, and gold-bubbling 
fountains, 
The brave Caledonian views wi' disdain ; 
He wanders as free as the winds of his moun- 
tains, 
Save love's willing fetters, the chains o' his 
Jean. 



CCLII. 

'^toas na !)er fconme blue 3Eat. 

Tune. — a Laddie , lie near ine" 



[Though the lady who inspired these verses is called Mary by the 
poet, such, says tradition, was not her name : yet tradition, even in 
this, wavers, when it avers one while that Mrs. Riddel, and at and 
other time that Jean Lorimer was the heroine.] 



'Twas na her bonnie blue een was my ruin ; 
Fair tho' she be, that was ne'er my undoing : 
'Twas the dear smile when naebody did mind us, 
'Twas the bewitching, sweet stown glance o' 
kindness. 



Sair do I fear that to hope is denied me, 
Sair do I fear that despair maun abide me ! 
But tho' fell fortune should fate us to sever, 
Queen shall she be in my bosom for ever. 



Mary, I'm thine wi' a passion sincerest, 
And thou hast plighted me love o' the dearest I 
And thou'rt the angel that never can alter- 
Sooner the sun in his motion would falter. 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



223 



CCLIII. 

fj^eto cruel are t\)t parents. 

Tune. — " John Anderson, my jo." 

['* l am at this moment," says Burns to Thomson, when he sent 
him this song, " holding high converse with the Muses, and have not 
a word to throw away on a prosaic dog, such as you are." Yet there 
is less than the poet's usual inspiration in this lyric, for it is altered 
from an English one.] 



How cruel are the parents 

Who riches only prize, 
And, to the wealthy booby, 

Poor woman sacrifice ! 
Meanwhile the hapless daughter 

Has but a choice of strife ; 
To shun a tjTant father's hate, 

Become a wretched wife. 



The ravening hawk pursuing, 

The trembling dove thus flies, 
To shun impelling ruin 

Awhile her pinions tries ; 
Till of escape despairing, 

No shelter or retreat, 
She trusts the ruthless falconer, 

And drops beneath his feet ! 



CCLIV. 

J$tarfe gonrjer pomp. 

Tune. — " Deil tak the wars.'' 



[Burns tells Thomson, in the letter enclosing this song, that he is in 
a high fit of poetizing, provided he is not cured by the strait-waistcoat 
of criticism. " You see," said he, " how I answer your orders ; your 
tailor could not be more punctual." This strain in honour of (Jhloris 
is original in conception, but wants the fine lyrical flow of some of 
his other compositions.] 



Mauk yonder pomp of costly fashion 
Round the wealthy, titled bride : 

But when compar'd with real passion, 
Poor is all that princely pride. 
"What are the showy treasures ? 
What are the noisy pleasures ? 

The gay gaudy glare of vanity and art : 
The polished jewel's blaze 
May draw the wond'ring gaze, 
And courtly grandeur bright 
The fancy may delight, 

But never, never can come near the heart. 



But, did you see my dearest Chloris 

In simplicity's array; 
Lovely as yonder sweet opening flower is, 

Shrinking from the gaze of day. 



O then, the heart alarming, 

And all resistless charming, 
Tn Love's delightful fetters she chains the willing 
soul ! 

Ambition would disown 

The world's imperial crown, 

Even Avarice would deny 

His worshipp'd deity, 
And feel thro' every vein Love's raptures rolL 



CCLV 

2Njfe fa no mg afa Saggfe. 

Tune. — " This is no my ain house" 

[Though composed to the order of Thomson, and therefore lesa 
likely to be the offspring of unsolicited inspiration, this is one of the 
happiest of modern songs. When the poet wrote it he seems to have 
been beside the " fair dame at whose shrine," he said, «* I, the priest 
of the Nine, offer up the incense of Parnassus."] 



O this is no my ain lassie, 

Fair tho' the lassie be ; 
O weel ken I my ain lassie, 
Kind love is in her e'e. 
I see a form, I see a face, 
Ye weel may wi' the fairest place : 
It wants, to me, the witching grace, 
The kind love that's in her e'e. 



She's bonnie, blooming, straight, and tail, 
And lang has had my heart in thrall ; 
And ay it charms my very saul, 
The kind love that's in her e'e. 



A thief sae pawkie is my Jean, 
To steal a blink, by a' unseen ; 
But gleg as light are lovers' e'en, 
When kind love is in the e'e. 



It may escape the courtly sparks, 

It may escape the learned clerks ; 

But weel the watching lover marks 

The kind love that's in her e'e. 

O this is no my ain lassie, 

Fair tho' the lassie be ; 

O weel ken I my ain lassie 

Kind love is in her e'e* 



224 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



CCLVI 

i^efc jerring fcas clat) $e Crobe in <&mn. 

TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 



[Composed n. reference to a love disappointment of the poet's friend, 
Alexander Cunningham, which also occasioned the song beginning, 
" Had I a cave on some wild distant shore."' 



OGLVI1, 
<& 25onmc foag gon Iftosj) !3rter. 



[To Jean Lorimer, th* 'ier>uneof this song, Burns presented a copr 
of the last edition of his poems, that of 1793, with a dedicatory in 
scription, in which he moralizes upon her youth, her beauty, a'.is 
steadfast friendship, and tig'is himself Coila.] 



Now spring has dad the grove in green, 

And strew' d the lea wi' flowers : 
The furrow' d waving corn is seen 

Rejoice in fostering showers ; 
While ilka thing in nature join 

Their sorrows to forego. 
O why thus all alone are mine 

The weary steps of woe ? 



The trout within yon wimpling burn 

Glides swift, a silver dart, 
And safe beneath the shady thorn 

Defies the angler's art : 
My life was ance that careless stream, 

That wanton trout was I ; 
But love, wi' unrelenting beam, 

Has scorch'd my fountains dry. 



The little flow'ret's peaceful lot, 

In yonder cliff that grows, 
Which, save the linnet's flight, I wot, 

Nae ruder visit knows, 
Was mine ; till love has o'er me past. 

And blighted a' my bloom, 
And now beneath the with'ring blast 

My youth and joy consume. 



The waken' d lav' rock warbling springs 

And climbs the early sky, 
Winnowing blithe her dewv wings 

In morning s rosy eye ; 
As little reckt I sorrow's power. 

Until the flow'ry snare 
O' witching love, in luckless hour, 

Made me the thrall o' care. 



had my fate been Greenland sno\vs ; 

Or Afric's burning zone, 
Wi' man and nature leagu'd my foes, 

So Peggy ne'er I'd known ! 
The wretch whase doom is, " hope nae mair, ! 

Wiiat tongue his woes can tell ! 
Within whase bosom, save despair, 

Nae kinder spirits dwelL 



bonnie was yon rosy brier, 

That blooms sae far frae haunt o' man ; 
And bonnie she, and ah, how clear ! 

It shaded frae the e'enin sun . 



Yon rosebuds in the morning dew 

How pure, amang the leaves sae green ; 

But purer was the lover's vow 

They witness'd in their shade yestreen. 



All in its rude and prickly bower, 

That crimson rose, how sweet and fair ! 

But love is far a sweeter flower 
Amid life's thorny path o' care. 



The pathless wild, and wimpling burn, 

Wi' Chloris in my arms, be mine ; 
And I the world, nor wish, nor scoris, 

Its joys and griefs alike resign. 



CCLVIIL 

jporlorn, nig Sofee, no Comfort near. 

Tune. — u Let me in this ae Night." 



["How do you like the foregoing ?" Burns asks Thomsoi, after 
having copied this song for his collection. " I have written it within 
this hour: so much for the speed of my Pegasus but what say you 
to his bottom ?"] 



Forlorn, my love, no comfort near. 
Far, far from thee, I wander here; 
Far, far from thee, the fate severe 
At which I most repine, love. 
O wert thou, love, but near me ; 
But near, near, near me ; 
How kindly thou wouldst cheer me, 
And mingle sighs with mine, love, 



Around me scowls a wintry sky 
That blasts each bud of hope aud joy j 
AnX shelter, shade, nor home have J, 
Save in those arms of thine, love, 



OF RORFRT BURNS 



22o 



Cold, alter*d friendship's cruel part, 

To poison Fortune's ruthless dart, 

Let me not break thy faithful heart, 

And say that fate is mine, love. 



But dreary tho' the moments fleet, 
O let me think we yet shall meet I 
That only ray of solace sweet 
Can on thy Chloris shine, love. 
O wert thcu, love, but near me ; 
But near, near, near me ; 
How kindly thou wouldst cheer me, 
And mingle sighs with mine, love. 



CCLIX. 

&a*t #tan a fcrafo 2&ooer. 

Tune. — " The Lothian Lassie. 



'" Gates.acK," says Hums to Thomson, " is tr» rame of a r*j. 
ticulir place, a kind of passage among the Lowther Hills, on tho 
confines of Dumfrieshire: Dalgarnock, is also the name of a ro- 
mantic spot near the Nith, where are still a n.*ned church and 
burial-ground." To this, it may be added that Dalgarnock kirh> 
ravd is the scene where the author of Waverley finds Old Mortality 
repairing the Cameronian grave-stones.] 



Last May a braw wooer cam down the !ang 

glen, 
And sair wi' his love he did deave me ; 
I said there was naething I hated like men, 
The deuce gae wi'm, to believe, believe me, 
The deuce gae wi'm, to believe me ! 



He spak o' the darts in my bonnie black een, 
And vow'd for my love he was dying ; 

I said he might die when he liked for Jean, 
The Lord forgie me for lying, for lying, 
The Lord forgie me for lying ! 



A weel-stocked mailen — himsel' for the laird- 
And marriage aff-hand, were his proffers : 

I never loot on that I kenn'd it, or car'd, 
But thought I may hae wanr offers, wgi 

offers. 
But thought I might hae waur offers. 



But what wad ye think? In a fortnight or 
less — 
The deil tak his taste to gae near her ! 
He up the Gateslack to my black cousin Bess, 
Guess ye how, the jad ! I could bear her, could 

bear her, 
Guess ye how. the jad ! I could bear her. 



But a' the niest week as I fretted wi' aire, 
I gaed to the tryste o' Dalgarnock, 

And wha but my fine fickle lover was there ! 
I glow'rd as I'd seen a warlock, a warlock, 
I glowr'd as I'd seen a warlock. 



But owre my left shouthcr I gae him a blink, 
Lest neebors might say I was saucy ; 

My wooer he caper'd as he'd been in drink, 
And vow'd I was his dear lassie, dear lassie, 
And vow'd I was his dear lassie. 



I spier'd for my cousin fu' couthy and sweet, 

Gin she had recovered her hearin'. 
And how my auld shoon suited her shauchlod 
feet, 
But, heavens ! how he fell a swearin', a 

swearin', 
But, heavens ! how he fell a swearm"* .' 



He begged, for Gudesake, I wad be his wife, 
Or else I wa d kill him wi' sorrow ; 

So, e'en to preserve the poor body in life, 
I think I maun wed him to-morrow, to-mor 

row, 
I think I maun wed him to-morrow. 



CCLX. 
©hlons. 

Tune. — " Caledonian Hunt's Delight.'' 



[" lam at present," says Burns to Thomson, when he communi- 
cated these verses, " quite occupied with the charming sensation* o. 
the tooth-ache, so have not a word to spare— such is the peculia rity ot 
the rythm of this air, that I find it impossible to make another stania 
to suit it." This is the last of his strains in honour of Chloris. 1 



Why, why tell thy lover, 
Bliss he never must enjoy : 

"Why, why undeceive him, 

And give all his hopes the lie ? 



O why, while fancy raptured, slumber* 
Chloris, Chloris all the theme, 

Why, why wouldst thou cruel 
Wake thy lover from his dream ? 



226 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



CCLXT. 

2T&e PHg&lftid S&tuoto'g Eament. 



[This song is said to be Burns s version of a Gaelic .amentfor the 
nun which followed the rebellion of the year 1J45: he sent it to the 
Museum.] 



Ch ! I am come to the low coxintrie, 

Och-on, och-on, och-rie ! 
Without a pennv in my purse, 

To buy a meal to me. 



It was na sae in the Highland hills, 

Och-on, och-on, och-rie ! 
Nae woman in the country wide 

Sae happy was as me. 



For then I had a score o' kye, 
Och-on, och-on, och-rie I 

Feeding on yon hills so high, 
And giving milk to me. 



And there I had three score o' yowes, 

Och-on, och-on, och-rie ! 
Skipping on yon bonnie knowes, 

And casting woo' to me. 



I was the happiest of a' the clan, 
Sair, sair, may I repine ; 

For Donald was the brawest lad, 
And Donald he was mine. 



Till Charlie Stewart cam' at last, 

Sae far to set us free ; 
My Donald's arm was wanted then, 

For Scotland and for me. 



Their waefu' fate what need I tell, 
Right to the wrang did yield: 

My Donald and his country fell 
Upon Culloden's field. 

VIII. 

Oh ! I am come to the low countrie, 

Och-on, och-on, och-rie ! 
Nae woman in the world wide 

Sae wretched now as me. 



CCLXII 
^o (keueral Bumouticr. 

A PARODY ON ROBIN ADAIR. 



[Burns wrote this " We.come" on the unexnp^ted defection •>* 
General Dumourier.J 



You're welcome to despots, Dumouner ; 
You're welcome to despots, Dumourier ; 

How does Dampiere do ? 

Aye, and Bournonville, too ? 
Why did they not come along with you, Du- 
mourier ? 



I will fight France with you, Dumourier ; 

I will fight France with you, Dumourier ; 
I will fight France with you, 
I will take my chance with you ; 

By my soul I'll dance a dance with you, Durnow- 



Then let us fight about, Dumourier; 
Then let us fight about, Dumourier; 

Then let us fight about, 

Till freedom's spark is out, 
Then we'll be damn'd, no doubt, DuinourieT 



CCLXIII 
^cg=a=3&am0eg. 

— " Cauldis the e'enin blttsi." 



I Most of this song is old. Burns gave it a brushing fm shr Ma- 



Cauld is the e'enin' blast 
O' Boreas o'er the pool, 

And dawin' it is dreary 
When birks are bare at Yule. 



bitter blaws the e'enin' blast 
When bitter bites the frost, 

And in the mirk and dreary drift 
The hills and glens are lost. 



Ne'er sae murky blew the nigh* 
That drifted o'er the hill, 

But a bonnie Peg-a-Ramsey 
Gat grist to her milL 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



22/ 



cclxiv. 

t)txz foag a Bonnie Sag*. 



f A stwtch of aii oW strain, trimmed up a little for the Mu- 



There was a bonnie lass, 
And a bonnie, bonnie lass, 

And she lo'ed her bonnie laddie dear \ 
Till war's loud alarms 
Tore her laddie frae her arms, 

Wi' mony a sigh and tear. 



Over sea, over shore, 

Where the cannons loudly roar, 
He still was a stranger to fear ; 

A nd nocht could him quell, 

Or his bosom assail, 
But the bonnie lass he lo'ed sae dear. 



CCLXV. 



(Bums, it is said, composed these verses, on meeting a country girl, 
Vith her shoes and stockings in her lap, walking homewards from a 
Dumfries fair. He was struck with her beauty, and as beautifully 
has he recorded it. This was his last communication to the Mu- 

KUffl.] 



O Mally's meek, Mally's sweet, 

Mally's modest and discreet, 
Mally's rare, Mally's fair, 

Mally's every way complete. 
As I was walking up the street, 

A barefit maid I chane'd to meet ; 
But O the road was very hard 

For that fair maiden's tender feet. 



It were mair meet that those fine feet 
Were weel lae'd up in silken shoon, 

And 'twere more fit that she should sit, 
Within yon chariot gilt aboon. 



Her yellow hair, beyond compare, 

Comes trinklingdown her swan-white neck ; 
And her two eyes, like stars in skies, 

Would keep a sinking ship frae wreck. 
O Mally's meek, Mally's sweet, 

Mally's modest and discreet, 
Mally's rare, Mally's fair, 

Mally's every way complete. 



CCLXVT. 

$?ej) for a 2U*g foP another. 

Tune. — " Balinamona Ora." 



[Communicated to Thomson, 17th of February, 1796, to be 
printed as part of the poet's contribution to the Irish melodies: \\c 
calls it " a kind of rh£,-wdy." | 



Awa wi' your witchcraft o' beauty's alarms, 
The slender bit beauty you grasp in your arms : 
O, gie me the lass that has acres o' charms, 
O, gie me the lass wi' the weel-stockit farms. 

Then hey for a lass wi' a tocher, 

Then hey for a lass wi' a tocher ; 

Then hey for a lass wi' a tocher, 
The nice yellow guineas for me. 



Your beauty's a flower, in the morning that 

blows, 
And withers the faster, the faster it grows ; 
But the rapturous charm o' the bonnie green 

knowes, 
Ilk spring they're new deckit wi' bonnie wliite 

yovves. 



And e'en when this beauty your bosom has 

blest, 
The brightest o' beauty may cloy when possest; 
But the sweet yellow darlings wi' Geordie im- 
prest, 
The langer ye hae them — the mair they're 
cares t. 
Then hey for a lass wi' a tocher, 
Then hey for a lass wi' a tocher ; 
Then hey for a lass wi' a tocher, 
The nice yellow guineas for me, 



CCLXVII. 

Tune. — " Here's a health to them that's awa.'" 



[Written in honour of Mh« Jessie Lewars, now Mrs. Thomson. 
Her tender and daughter-like attentions soothed the last hours of the 
dying poet, and if immortality can be considered a recompence, she 
has been rewarded.] 



Here's a health to aiie I lo'e dear ; 
Here's a health to aue I lo'e dear j 



228 



THE POETICAL WORKS OF ROBERT BURNS. 



Thou art sweet as the smile when fond lovers 
meet, 
And soft as their parting tear — Jessy! 



Altho' thou maun never be mine, 

Altho' even hope is denied ; 
'Tis sweeter for thee despairing, 

Than aught in the world beside — Jessy ! 



I mourn through the gay, gaudy day, 
As, hopeless, I muse on thy charms : 

But welcome the dream o' sweet slumber, 
For then I am lockt in thy arms — Jessy ! 



I guebs "by the dear angel smile, 

I guess by the love-rolling e'e; 
But why urge the tender confession 

'Gainst fortune's fell cruel decree? — Jessy ! 
Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear ; 

Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear ; 
Thou art sweet as the smile when fond lovers 
meet, 

And soft as their parting tear — Jessy ! 



CCLXVIII 
iFatrest J&atti on Mzbtm 23anfe*» 

Tune. — "Rothemurche." 



[On the 12th of July, 1796, as Burns lay dying at Brow, on the Soi- 
way, his thoughts wandered to early days, and this song, the last h« 
was to measure in this world, was dedicated to Charlotte Hamilton, 
the maid of the Devon. | 



Fairest maid on Devon banks, 

Crystal Devon, winding Devon, 
Wilt thou lay that frown aside, 
And smile as thou were wont to do P 
Full well thou knows't I love thee, dear I 
Could' st thou to malice lend an ear ! 
! did not love exclaim " Forbear, 
Nor use a faithful lover so." 



Then come, thou fairest of the fair, 
Those wonted smiles, O let me share 5 
And by thy beauteous self I swear, 
No love but thine my heart shall know, 
Fairest maid on Devon banks, 

Crystal Devon, winding Devon, 
"Wilt thou lay that frown aside, 

And smile as then were wont to do? 






.. 



GENERAL COR RESPONDENCE. 



I. 



[This was written by Burns in his twenty-third year, when leani- 
ng flax-dressing in Irvine, and is the earliest of his letters which has 
reached us. It has much of the scriptural deference to paternal au- 
thority, and more of the Complete Letter Writer than we look for in 
an original mind.] 

Irvine, Dec. 27, 1781. 
Honoured Sir, 
I have purposely delayed writing, in the hope 
that I should have the pleasure of seeing you on 
New- Year's day ; but work comes so hard upon 
us, that I do not choose to be absent on that ac- 
count, as well as for some other little reasons 
which I shall tell you at meeting. My health is 
nearly the same as when you were here, only my 
sleep is a little sounder, and on the whole I am 
rather better than otherwise, though I mend by 
very slow degrees. The weakness of my nerves 
has so debilitated my mind, that I dare neither 
review past wants, nor look forward into futu- 
rity; for the least anxiety or perturbation in my 
breast produces most unhappy effects on my 
whole frame. Sometimes, indeed, when for an 
hour or two my spirits are alightened, I glimmer 
a little into futurity ; but my principal, and in 
deed my only pleasurable employment is looking 
backwards and forwards in a moral and religious 
way ; I am quite transported at the thought, 
that ere long perhaps very soon, I shall bid an 
eternal adieu to all the pains, and uneasiness, 
and disquietudes of this weary life : for I assure 
you I am heartily tired of it ; and if I do not 
very much deceive myself, I could contentedly 
and gladly resign it. 

" The soul, uneasy, and confined at home, 
Rests and expatiates in a life to come." * 

ft is for this reason I am more pleased with the 
15th, 16th, and 17th verses of the 7th chapter of 
Revelations, than with any ten times as many 
verses in the whole Bible, and would not ex- 
change the noble enthusiasm with which they 

■ i'ope. Essay on Man. 



inspire me for all that this world has to offer. 
As for this world, I despair of ever making a 
figure in it. I am not formed for the bustle of 
the busy, nor the flutter of the gay. I- shall 
never again be capable of entering into such 
scenes. Indeed I am altogether unconcerned at 
the thoughts of this life. I foresee that poverty 
and obscurity probably await me, and I am in 
some measure prepared, and daily preparing to 
meet them. I have but just time and paper to 
return you my grateful thanks for the lessons of 
virtue and piety you have given me, which were 
too much neglected at the time of giving them, 
but which I hope have been remembered ere it 
is yet too late. Present my dutiful respects to 
my mother, and my compliments to Mr. and 
Mrs. Muir ; and with wishing you a merry New- 
Year's day, I shall conclude. I am, honoured 
sir, your dutiful son, 

Robert Burness. 
P.S. My meal is nearly out, but I am going 
to borrow till I get more. 



II. 

&o 0lv. $o§\\ J&uvtiocf>, 

SCHOOLMASTER, 
STAPLES-INN BUILDINGS, LONDON. 



[John Murdoch, one of the poet's early teachers, removed from the 
west of Scotland to London, where he lived to a good old age, and 
loved to talk of the pious William Burness and his eminent son.J 



Lorhlea, Ibih January, 1783. 
Dear Sir, 
As I have an opportunity of sending you a 
letter without putting you to that expense, which 
any production of mine would but ill repay, I 
embrace it with pleasure, to tell you that I have 
not forgotten, nor ever will forget, the many ob- 
ligations I lie under to your kindness and friend- 
ship. 

I do not doubt. Sir, but you will wish to know 
3 N 



230 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



what has been the result of all the pains of an 
indulgent father, and a masterly teacher ; and I 
wish I could gratify your curiosity with such a 
recital as you would be pleased with ; but that 
is what I am afraid will not be the case. I have, 
indeed, kept pretty clear of vicious habits ; and, 
in this respect, I hope, my conduct will not dis- 
grace the education I have gotten; but, as a man 
of the world, I am most miserably deficient. 
One would have thought that, bred as I have 
been, under a father, who has figured pretty 
well as un homme des affaires, I might have been, 
what the world calls, a pushing, active fellow ; 
but to tell you the truth, Sir, there is hardly any 
thing more my reverse. I seem to be one sent 
into the world to see and observe ; and I very 
easily compound with the knave who tricks me 
of my money, if there be anything original about 
him, which shows me human nature in a different 
light from any thing I have seen before. In 
short, the joy of my heart is to " study men, 
their manners, and their ways ;" and for this 
darling subject, I cheerfully sacrifice every other 
consideration. I am quite indolent about those 
great concerns that set the bustling, busy sons 
of care agog ; and if I have to answer for the 
present hour, I am very easy with regard to any 
thing further. Even the last, worst shift of the 
unfortunate and the wretched, does not much 
terrify me : I know that even then, my talent for 
what country folks call " a sensible crack," when 
once it is sanctified by a hoary head, would pro- 
cure me so much esteem, that even then — I 
would learn to be happy. 1 However, I am under 
no apprehensions about that ; for though indo- 
lent, yet so far as an extremely delicate consti- 
tution permits, I am not lazy; and in many 
things, especially in tavern matters, I am a strict 
economist ; not, indeed, for the sake of the 
money ; but one of the principal parts in my 
composition is a kind of pride of stomach ; and 
I scorn to fear the face of any man living : above 
every thing, I abhor as hell, the idea of sneak- 
ing in a corner to avoid a dun — possibly some 
pitiful, sordid wretch, who in my heart I despise 
and detest. 'Tis this, and this alone, that en- 
dears economy to me. In the matter of books, 
indeed, I am very profuse. My favourite au- 
thors are of the sentimental kind, such as Shen- 
stone, particularly his " Elegies ;" Thomson ; 
" Man of Feeling" — a book I prize next to the 
Bible ; " Man of the World ;" Sterne, especially 
his " Sentimental Journey ;" Macpherson's 
" Ossian," &c. ; these are the glorious models 
after which I endeavour to form my conduct, 
and 'tis incongruous, 'tis absurd to suppose that 
the man whose mind glows with sentiments 
lighted up at their sacred flame — the man whose 
heart distends with benevolence to all the hu- 
man race — he " who can soar above this little 
scene of things" — can he descend to mind the 
paltry concerns about which the terrsefilial race 
fret, and fume, and vex themselves ! O how the 

' ' The last shift alluded to \ere must be the condition of an itine- 
rant beggar.— <'urrik. 



glorious triumph swells my heart ! 1 forget that 
I am a poor, insignificant devil, unnoticed and 
unknown, stalking up and down fairs and mar- 
kets, when I happen to be in them, reading a 
page or two of mankind, and u catching the man- 
ners living as they rise," whilst the men of busi- 
ness jostle me on every side, as an idle incum- 
brance in their way. — But I dare say I have by 
this time tired your patience ; so I shall con- 
clude with begging you to give Mrs. Murdoch — 
not my compliments, for that is a mere common- 
place story; but my warmest, kindest wishes 
for her welfare; and accept of the same for 
yourself, from, 

Dear Sir, yours.— Jfc. B. 



III. 

WRITER, MONTROSE.' 



[James Burness, son of the poet's uncle, lives at Montrose, and as 
may be surmised, is now very old : fame has come to his hou&e 
through his eminent cousin Robert, and dearer still through his own 
grandson, Sir Alexander Burnes, with whose talents and intrepidity 
the world is well acquainted.] 



Lochlea, 2\st June, 1783. 
Dear Sir, 

My father received your favour of the 10th 
current, and as he has been for some months 
very poorly in health, and is in his own opinion 
(and, indeed, in almost every body's else) in a 
dying condition, he has only, with great diffi- 
culty, written a few farewell lines to each of his 
brothers-in-law. For this melancholy reason, I 
now hold the pen for him to thank you for your 
kind letter, and to assure you, Sir, that it shall 
not be my fault if my father's correspondence 
in the north die with him. My brother writes 
to John Caird, and to him I must refer you for 
the news of our family. 

I shall only trouble you with a few particu- 
lars relative to the wretched state of this country 
Our markets are exceedingly high ; oatmeal 17d. 
and 18d. per peck, and not to be got even at that 
price. We have indeed been pretty well sup- 
plied with quantities of white peas from Eng- 
land and elsewhere, but that resource is likely 
to fail us, and what will become of us then, par- 
ticularly the very poorest sort, Heaven only 
knows. This country, till of late, was flourishing 
incredibly in the manufacture of silk, lawn, and 
carpet-weaving ; and we are still carrying on a 



1 This gentleman (the son of an elder brother of my father's), 
when he was very young, lost his father, and having discovered in 
his father's repositories some of my father's letters, he requested time 
the correspondence might be renewed. My father continued till the 
last year of his life to correspond with his nephew, and it was after- 
wards kept up by my brother. Extracts from some of my brother's 
letters to his cousin are introduced, for the purpose of exhibiting the 
poet before he had attracted the notice of the public, and in his do* 
mestic family relations afterwards — Gilbert Burns. 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



23) 



good deal in that way, but much reduced from 
what it was. We had also a fine trade in the 
shoe way, but now entirely ruined, and hundreds 
driven to a starving condition on account of it. 
Farming is also at a very low ebb with us. Our 
lands, generally speaking, are mountainous and 
barren; and our landholders, full of ideas of 
farming gathered from the English and the 
Lothians, and other rich soils in Scotland, make 
no allowance for the odds of the quality of land, 
and consequently stretch us much beyond what 
in the event we will be found able to pay. We 
are also much at a loss for want of proper me- 
thods in our improvements of farming. Neces- 
sity compels us to leave our old schemes, and 
few of us have opportunities of being well in- 
formed in new ones. In short, my dear Sir, 
since the unfortunate beginning of this Ameri- 
can war, and its as unfortunate conclusion, this 
country has been, and still is, decaying very fast. 
Even in higher life, a couple of our Ayrshire 
noblemen, and the major part of our knights 
and squires are all insolvent. A miserable job 
of a Douglas, Heron, and Co.'s bank, which no 
doubt you heard of, has undone numbers of 
them ; and imitating English and French, and 
other foreign luxuries and fopperies, has ruined 
as many more. There is a great trade of smug- 
gling carried on along our coasts, which, how- 
ever destructive to the interests of the kingdom 
at large, certainly enriches this corner of it, but 
too often at the expense of our morals. How- 
ever, it enables individuals to make, at least for 
a time, a splendid appearance ; but Fortune, as 
is usual with her when she is uncommonly lavish 
of her favours, is generally even with them at 
the last ; and happy were it for numbers of them 
if she would leave them no worse than when she 
found them. 

My mother sends you a small present of a 
cheese, 'tis but a very little one, as our last year's 
stock is sold off; but if you could fix on any cor- 
respondent in Edinburgh or Glasgow, we would 
send you a proper one in the season. Mrs. Black 
promises to take the cheese under her care so 
far, and then to send it to you by the Stirling 
carrier. 

I shall conclude this long letter with assuring 
you that I shall be very happy to hear from you, 
or any of our friends in your country, when op- 
portunity serves. 

My father sends you, probably for the last 
time in this world, his warmest wishes for your 
welfare and happiness ; and my mother and the 
rest of the family desire to inclose their kind 
compliments to you, Mrs. Burness, and the rest 
cf your family, along with those of, 
Dear Sir, 
Your affectionate Cousin, 

R. B. 



IV, 

Eo Mite S. 



("The name of the lady to whom this and the three si<c< tedlng let- 
ters were addressed, seems to have been known to Dr. Currie, who 
introduced them in his first edition, but excluded them from his 
second. They were restored by Gilbert Burns, without naming the 
lady.] 

Lochlea, 1783. 
I verily believe, my dear E., that the pure, 
genuine feelings of love are as rare in the world 
as the pure, genuine principles of virtue and 
piety. This I hope will account for the uncom- 
mon style of all my letters to you. By uncom- 
mon, I mean their being written in such a serious 
manner, which to tell you the truth, has made 
me often afraid lest you should take me for some 
zealous bigot, who conversed with his mistress 
as he would converse with his minister. I don't 
know how it is, my dear, for though, except your 
company, there is nothing on earth gives me so 
much pleasure as writing to you, yet it never 
gives me those giddy raptures so much talked of 
among lovers. I have often thought that if a 
well-grounded affection be not really a part of 
virtue, 'tis something extremely akin to it. 
Whenever the thought of my E. warms my 
heart, every feeling of humanity, every principle 
of generosity kindles in my breast. It extin- 
guishes every dirty spark of malice and envy 
which are but too apt to infest me. I grasp 
every creature in the arms of universal benevo- 
lence, and equally participate in the pleasures of 
the happy, and sympathize with the miseries of 
the unfortunate. I assure you, my dear, I often 
look up to the Divine Disposer of events with 
an eye of gratitude for the blessing which I hope 
he intends to bestow on me in bestowing you. 
I sincerely wish that he may bless my endea- 
vours to make your life as comfortable and happy 
as possible, both in sweetening the rougher parts 
of my natural temper, and bettering the un- 
kindly circumstances of my fortune. This, my 
dear, is a passion, at least in my view, worthy 
of a man, and I will add worthy of a Christian. 
The sordid earth-worm may profess love to' a 
woman's person, whilst in reality his affection is 
centered in her pocket ; and the slavish drudge 
may go a-wooing as he goes to the horse-mar- 
ket to choose one who is stout and firm, and as 
we may say of an old horse, one wno will be a 
good drudge and draw kindly. I disdain their 
dirty, puny ideas. I would be heartily out of 
humour with myself if I thought I were capable 
of having so poor a notion of the sex, which were 
designed to crown the pleasures of society. 
Poor devils I I don't envy them their happiness 
who have such notions. For my part, I pro- 
pose quite other pleasures with my dear part- 
ner. 

Ft. B. 



232 



Q E N ERA L CO 11 R KS PO N L) ENCE 



Lochlea, 1783. 
My dear E. : 

I do not remember, in the course of your ac- 
quaintance and mine, ever to have heard your 
opinion on the ordinary way of falling in love, 
amongst people of our station of life : I do not 
mean tiie persons who proceed in the way. of 
bargain, but those whose affection is really placed 
on the person. 

Though I be, as you know very well, but a 
very awkward lover myself, yet as I have some 
opportunities of observing the conduct of others 
who are much better skilled in the affair of 
courtship than I am, I often think it is owing to 
lucky chance more than to good management, 
that there are not more unhappy marriages than 
usually are. 

It is natural for a young fellow to like the ac- 
quaintance of the females, and customary for him 
to keep them company when occasion serves: 
some one of them is more agreeable to him than 
the rest; there is something, he knows not 
what, pleases him, he knows not how, in her 
company. This I take to be what is called love 
^'ith the greater part of us ; and I must own, dear 
E., it is a hard game, such a one as you have to 
play when you meet with such a lover. You 
cannot refuse but he is sincere, and yet though 
you use him ever so favourably, perhaps in a 
few months, or at farthest in a year or two, the 
same unaccountable fancy may make him as dis- 
tractedly fond of another, whilst you are quite 
forgot. I am aware that perhaps the next time 
I have the pleasure of seeing you, you may bid 
me take my own lesson home, and tell me that 
the passion I have professed for you is perhaps 
one of those transient flashes I have been de- 
scribing ; but I hope, my dear E., you will 
do me the justice to believe me, when I as- 
sure you that the love I have for you is 
founded on the sacred principles of virtue and 
honour, and by consequence so long as you 
continue possessed of those amiable qualities 
which first inspired my passion for you, so long 
must I continue to love you. Believe me, my 
dear, it is love like this alone which can render 
the marriage state happy. People may talk of 
flames and raptures as long as they please, and a 
warm fancy, with a flow of youthful spirits, 
may make them feel something like what they 
describe ; but sure I am the nobler faculties of 
the mind, with kindred feelings of the heart, can 
only be the foundation of friendship, and it has 
always been my opinion that the married life 
was only friendship in a more exalted degree. 
If you will be so good as to grant my wishes, 
and it should please Providence to spare us to 
the latest periods of life, I can look forward and 
see that even then, though bent down with wrink- 
led age; even then, when all other worldly cir- 
cumstances will be indifferent to me, I will re- 
gard my E. with the tenderest affection, and 



for this plain reason, because she is still pos» 
sessed of those noble qualities, improved to a 
much higher degree, which first inspired my af- 
fection for her. 

" O ! happy state when souls each other draw, ' 
When love is liberty, and nature law" * 

I know were I to speak in such a style to 
many a girl, who thinks herself possessed of no 
small share of sense, she would think it ridicu- 
lous ; but the language of the heart is, my dear 
E., the only courtship I shall ever use to you. 

When I look over what I have written, I am 
sensible it is vastly different from the ordinary 
style of courtship, but I shall make no apology 
— I know your good nature will excuse what 
your good sense may see amiss. 

R. B. 



VI. 

Lochka, 1783. 

I have often thought it a peculiarly unlucky 
circumstance in love, that though in every other 
situation in life, telling the truth is not only the 
safest, but actually by far the easiest way of 
proceeding, a lover is never under greater diffi- 
culty in acting, or more puzzled for expression, 
than when his passion is sincere, and his inten- 
tions are honourable. I do not think that it is very 
difficult for a person of ordinary capacity to talk 
of love and fondness, which are not felt, and to 
make vows of constancy and fidelity, wdiich are 
never intended to be performed, if he be vil- 
lain enough to practise such detestable conduct : 
but to a man whose heart glows with the prin- 
ciples of integrity and truth, and who sincerely 
loves a woman of amiable person, uncommon re- 
finement of sentiment and purity of manners — 
to such an one, in such circumstances, I can as- 
sure you, my deai*, from my own feelings at this 
present moment, courtship is a task indeed. 
There is such a number of foreboding fears, and 
distrustful anxieties crowd into my mind when 
I am in your company, or when I sit down to 
write to you, that what to speak, or what to 
write I am altogether at- a loss. 

There is one rule which I have hitherto prac- 
tised, and which I shall invariably keep with you, 
and that is honestly to tell you the plain truth. 
There is something so mean and unmanly in the 
arts of dissimulation and falsehood, that I am 
surprised they can be acted by any one in 
so noble, so generous a passion, as virtuous 
love. No, my dear E., I shall never endeavour 
to gain your favour by such detestable practices. 
If you will be so good and so generous as to ad- 
mit me for your partner, your companion, your 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



233 



bosom friend through life, there is nothing on 
this side of eternity shall give me greater trans- 
port ; but I shall never think of purchasing 
your hand by any arts unworthy of a man, and 
I will add of a Christian. There is one thing, 
my dear, which I earnestly request of you, and 
it is this ; that you would soon either put an 
end to my hopes by a peremptory refusal, or 
cure me of my fears by a generous consent. 

It would oblige me much if you would send 
me a line or two when convenient. I shall 
only add further that, if a behaviour regulated 
(though perhaps but very imperfectly) by the 
rules of honour and virtue, if a heart devoted to 
love and esteem you, and an earnest endeavour 
to promote your happiness ; if these are quali- 
ties you would wish in a friend, in a husband, I 
hope you shall ever find them in your real friend, 
and sincere lover. 

R. B. 



VII. 

Eo mi** m. 

Lochlea, 1783. 

I ought, in good manners, to have acknow- 
ledged the receipt of your letter before this 
time, but my heart was so shocked, with the 
contents of it, that I can scarcely yet collect my 
thoughts so as to write you on the subject. I 
will not attempt to describe what I felt on re- 
ceiving your letter. I read it over and over, again 
and again, and though it was in the politest lan- 
guage of refusal, still it was peremptory ; " you 
were sorry you could not makeme a return, but 
you wish me," what without you I never can 
obtain, "you wish me all kind of happiness." It 
would be weak and unmanly to say that, with- 
out you I never can be happy ; but sure I am, 
that sharing life with you would have given it 
a relish, that, wanting you, I can never taste. 

Your uncommon personal advantages, and 
your superior good sense, do not so much strike 
me ; these, possibly in a few instances may be 
met with in others ; but that amiable goodness, 
that tender feminine softness, that endearing 
sweetness of disposition, with all the charming 
offspring of a warm feeling heart — these I never 
again expect to meet with, in such a degree, 
in this world. All these charming qualities, 
heightened by an education much beyond any 
thing I have ever met in any woman I ever 
dared to approach, have made an impression on 
my heart that I do not think the world can ever 
efface. My imagination had fondly flattered my- 
self with a wish, I dare not say it ever reached a 
hope, that possibly I might one day call you mine. 
I had formed the most delightful images, and 
my fancy fondly brooded over them ; but now I 
am wretched for the loss of what I really had no 
right to expect. I must now think no more of 



you as a mistress; still I presume to ask to l»o 
admitted as a friend. As such I wish to bo 
allowed to wait on you, and as I expect to 
remove in a few days a little further off, and 
you, I suppose, will perhaps soon leave this 
place, I wish to see or hear from you soon ; and 
if an expression should perhaps escape me, 
rather too warm for friendship, I hope you will 
pardon it in, my dear Miss — (pardon me t'»*» 
dear expression for once) * * * * 

R.B, 



VIII 

^o Itohctt MtDud, 1h$<T. 

OF GI.ENRIDDEL. 



[These memoranda throw much lignt on tne eany nays of ({urns, 
and on the history of his mind, and compositions. Robert Riddel, <>f 
the Friar's Carse, to whom these fragments were sent, was a g<xj<< 
man as well as a distinguished antiquary.] 



My Dear Sir, 

On rummaging over some old papers I lighted 
on a MS. of my early years, in which I had de- 
termined to write myself out ; as I was placed 
by fortune among a class of men to whom my 
ideas would have been nonsense. I had meant 
that the book should have lain by me, in the 
fond hope that some time or other, even after 
I was no more, my thoughts would fall into the 
hands of somebody capable of appreciating their 
value. It sets off thus : — 

"Observations, Hints, Songs, Scraps of 
Poetry, &c. by Robert Burness ; a man who 
had little art in making money, and still less in 
keeping it ; but was, however, a man of some 
sense, a great deal of honesty, and unbounded 
good-will to every creature, rational and irra- 
tional. — As he was but little indebted to scho- 
lastic education, and bred at a plough-tail, his 
performances must be strongly tinctured with 
his unpolished, rustic way of life ; but as I be- 
lieve they are really his own, it may be some 
entertainment to a curious observer of human 
nature to see how a ploughman thinks, and 
feels, under the pressure of love, ambition, anx- 
iety, grief, with the like cares and passions, 
which, however diversified by the modes an(' 
manners of life, operate pretty much alike, I be- 
lieve, on all the species." 

" There are numbers in the world who do not want sense 10 mak>. 
a figure, so much as an opinion of their own abilities to put them 
upon recording their observations, and allowing them the same im- 
portance which they do to those which appear in print."— Sh r w- 

STONE 

" Pleasing, when youth is long expired, to trace 
The forms our pencil, or our pen designed ' 
Such was our youthful air, and shape, and lace, 
Such the soft image of our youthful m\nd."—llu* 



234 



GENERAL COllKESPONDT. NCE 



April, 17H3. 
Notwithstanding all that has been said against 
love, respecting the folly and weakness it leads 
a young inexperienced mind into; still I think 
it in a "great measure deserves the highest en- 
comiums that have been passed upon it. If any 
tiling on earth deserves the name of rapture or 
transport, it is the feelings of green eighteen in 
1 h e company of the mistress of his heart, when 
<he repays him with an equal return of affection. 



August. 

There is certainly some connexion between 
love, and music, and poetry ; and therefore, I 
have always thought it a fiue touch of nature, 
that passage in a modern love-composition :- 

" As towards her cot hejogg'd along, 
Her name was frequent in his song." 

For my own part I never had the least thought 
or inclination of turning poet till I got once 
heartily in love, and then rhyme and song were 
in a manner the spontaneous language of my 
heart. The following composition was the first 
of my performances, and done at an early period 
of life, when my heart glowed with honest warm 
simplicity ; unacquainted and uncorrupted with 
the ways of a wicked world. The performance 
is, indeed, very puerile and silly ; but I am al- 
ways pleased with it, as it recalls to my mind 
those happy days when my heart was yet honest, 
and my tongue was sincere. The subject of it 
was a young girl who really deserved all the 
praises I have bestowed on her. I not only had 
this opinion of her then — but I actually think so 
still, now that the spell is long since broken, 
and the enchantment at an end. 

once I lov'd a bonnie lass. 1 

Lest my works should be thought below 
criticism : or meet with a critic, who, perhaps, 
will not look on them with so candid and fa- 
vourable an eye, I am determined to criticise 
them myself. 

The first distich of the first stanza is quite too 
much in the flimsy strain of our ordinary street 
ballads: and, on the other hand, the second 
distich is too much in the other extreme. The 
expression is a little awkward, and the senti- 
ment too serious. Stanza the second I am well 
pleased with ; and I think it conveys a fine idea 
of that amiable part of the sex — the agreeablcs; 
or what in our Scotch dialect we call a sweet 
sonsie lass. The third stanza has a little of the 
flimsy turn in it ; and the third line has rather 
too serious a cast. The fourth stanza is a very 
indifferent one ; the first line, is, indeed, all in 
the strain of the second stanza, but the rest 



c Son£3 and Hal lads, No. 1 



is most expletive. The thoughts in the fifth 
stanza come finely up to my favourite idea — a 
sweet sonsie lass : the last line, however, halts 
a little. The same sentiments are kept up with 
equal spirit and tenderness in the sixth stanza, 
but the second and fourth lines ending with 
short syllables hurt the whole. The seventh 
stanza has several minute faults ; but I re- 
member I composed it in a wild enthusiasm of 
passion, and to this hour I never recollect it but 
my heart melts, my blood sallies, at the remem- 
brance. 



September. 
I entirely agree with that judicious philoso- 
pher, Mr. Smith, in his excellent Theory of 
Moral Sentiments, that remorse is the most 
painful sentiment that can embitter the human 
bosom. Any ordinary pitch of fortitude may 
bear up tolerably well under those calamities, in 
the procurement of which we ourselves have had 
no hand ; but when our own follies, or crimes, 
have made us miserable and wretched, to bear 
up with manly firmness, and at the same time 
have a proper penitent sense of our miscon- 
duct, is a glorious effort of self-command. 

Of all the numerous ills that hurt our peace, 
That press the soul, or wring the mind with 

anguish, 
Beyond comparison the worst are those 
That to our folly or our guilt we owe. 
In every other circumstance, the mind 
Has this to say, ' It was no deed of mine ;' 
But when to all the evil of misfortune 
This sting is added — 'Blame thy foolish self!' 
Or worser far, the pangs of keen remorse ; 
The torturing, gnawing consciousness of guilt— 
Of guilt, perhaps, where we've involved others; 
The young, the innocent, who fondly lov'd us, 
Nay, more, that very love their cause of ruin ! 
O burning hell ; in all thy store of torments, 
There's not a keener lash ! 
Lives there a man so firm, who, while his heart 
Feels all the bitter horrors of his crime, 
Can reason down its agonizing throbs ; 
And, after proper purpose of amendment, 
Can firmly force his jarring thoughts to peace ? 
O, happy ! happy ! enviable man ! 
O glorious magnanimity of soul ! 



March, 1784. 
I have often observed, in the course of my 
experience of human life, that every man, 
even the worst, has something good about him ; 
though very often nothing else than a happy 
temperament of constitution inclining him to 
this or that virtue. For this reason, no man 
can pay in what degree any other person, be- 
sides himself, can be, with strict justice, called 






<)V ROBERT mJKNS. 



■2y.fi 



■wicked. Let any of the strictest character for re- 
gularity of conduct among us, examine imparti- 
ally how many vices he has never been guilty of, 
not from any care or vigilance, but for want of 
opportunity, or some accidental circumstance in- 
tervening ; how many of the weaknesses of man- 
kind he has escaped, because he was out of the line 
of such temptation ; and, what often, if not always, 
weighs more than all the rest, how much he is 
indebted to the world's good opinion, because 
the world does not know all : I say, any man who 
iian thus think, will scan the failings, nay, the 
faults and crimes, of mankind around him, with 
a brother's eye. 

I have often courted the acquaintance of that 
part of mankind, commonly known by the or- 
dinary phrase of blackguards, sometimes farther 
than was consistent with the safety of my cha- 
racter ; those who by thoughtless prodigality or 
headstrong passions, have been driven to ruin. 
Though disgraced by follies, nay, sometimes, 
stained with guilt, I have yet found among them, 
in not a few instances, some of the noblest vir- 
tues, magnanimity, generosity, disinterested 
friendship, and even modesty. 



April. 
As I am what the men of the world, if they 
knew such a man, would call a whimsical mor- 
tal, I have various sources of pleasure and en- 
joyment, which are, in a manner, peculiar to 
myself, or some here and there such other out- 
of-the-way person. Such is the peculiar pleasure 
I take in the season of winter, more than the 
rest of the year. This, I believe, may be partly 
owing to my misfortunes giving my mind a 
melancholy cast : but there is something even in 
the - 

" Mighty tempest, and the hoary waste 
Abrupt and deep, stretch'd o'er the buried earthy " — 

which raises the mind to a serious sublimity, 
favourable to every thing great and noble. 
There is scarcely any earthly object gives me more 
— I do not know if I should call it pleasure — but 
something which exalts me, something which 
enraptures me — than to walk in the sheltered 
side of a wood, or high plantation, in a, cloudy 
winter-day, and hear the stormy wind howling 
among the trees, and raving over the plain. 
It is my best season for devotion : my mind is 
wrapt up in a kind of enthusiasm to Him, who, 
in the pompous language of the Hebrew bard, 
u walks on the wings of the wind." In one of 
these seasons, just after a train of misfortunes 
I composed the following : — 

The wintry west extends his blast. 1 

Shenstone finely observes, that love-verses, 
writ without any real passion, are the most 



1 Sop Winter A Dirgi 



nauseous of all conceits; and I have often 
thought that no man can be a proper critic of 
love-composition, except he himself, in one or 
more instances, have been a warm votary of this 
passion. As I have been all along a miserable 
dupe to love, and have been led into a thousand 
weaknesses and follies by it, for that reason I put 
the more confidence in my critical skill, in dis- 
tinguishing foppery and conceit from real pas- 
sion and nature. "Whether the following song 
will stand the test, I will not pretend to say 
because it is my own ; only I can say it was, at 
the time, genuine from the heart : — 

Behind yon hills, where Lugai flows. ' 



March, 1784. 

There was a certain period of my life that my 
spirit was broke by repeated losses and disasters 
which threatened, and indeed effected, the utter 
ruin of my fortune. My body, too, was attacked 
by that most dreadful distemper, a hypochon- 
dria, or confirmed melancholy. In this wretched 
state, the recollection of which makes me shud- 
der, I hung my harp on the willow-trees, ex- 
cept in some lucid intervals, in one of which I 
composed the following : — 

O thou Great Being ! what Thou art, 2 



April. 

The following song is a wild rhapsody, miser- 
ably deficient in versification; but as the sen- 
timents are the genuine feelings of my heart, for 
that reason I have a particular pleasure in con- 
ning it over. 

My father was a farmer 

Upon the Carrick border, 0. 3 



April. 

I think the whole species of young men may 
be naturally enough divided into two grand 
classes, which I shall call the grave and the 
merry ; though, by the by, these terms do not 
with propriety enough express my ideas. The 
grave I shall cast into the usual division of those 
who are goaded on by the love of money, and 
those whose darling wish is to make a figure 
in the world. The merry are the men of plea- 
sure of all denominations ; the jovial lads, who 
have too much fire and spirit to have any settled 
rule of action ; but, without much deliberation, 
follow the strong impulses of nature : the 
thoughtless, the careless, the indolent— in par 
ticular he who, with a happy sweetness ot 
natural temper, and a cheerful vacancy of 



23(3 



GENERAL CORRESPOND KNCE 



thought, steals through life — generally, in- 
deed, in poverty and obscurity ; but poverty 
and obscurity are only evils to him who can sit 
gravely down and make a repining comparison 
between his own situation and that of others ; 
and lastly, to grace the quorum, such are, gene- 
rally, those whose heads are capable of all the 
towerings of genius, and whose hearts, are 
warmed with all the delicacy of feeling. 



August. 
The foregoing was to have been an elaborate 
dissertation on the various species of men; but 
as I cannot please myself in the arrangement 
of my ideas, I must wait till farther experience 
and nicer observation throw more light on the 
subject. — In the mean time I shall set down the 
following fragment, which, as it is the genuine 
language of my heart, will enable any body to 
determine which of the classes I belong to : 

There's nought but care on ev'ry han', 
In ev'ry hour that passes, O. 1 

As the grand end of human life is to cultivate 
an intercourse with that Being to whom we 
owe life, with every enjoyment that renders 
life delightful ; and to maintain an integritive 
conduct towards our fellow-creatures ; that so, 
by forming piety and virtue into habit, we may 
be lit members for that society of the pious and 
the good, which reason and revelation teach us to 
expect beyond the grave, I do not see that the 
turn of mind, and pursuits of such a one as the 
above verses describe — one who spends the 
hours and thoughts which the vocations of the 
day can spare with Ossian, Shakspeare, Thom- 
son, Shenstone, Sterne, &c. ; or, as the maggot 
takes him, a gun, a fiddle, or a song to make or 
mend ; and at all times some heart's-dear bon- 
nie lass in view — I say I do not see that the 
turn of mind and pursuits of such an one are in 
the least more inimical to the sacred interests 
of piety and virtue, than the even lawful, bust- 
ling and straining after the world's riches and 
honours : and I do not see but he may gain 
heaven as well — which, by the by, is no mean 
consideration — who steals through the vale of 
life, amusing himself with every little flower 
that fortune throws in his way, as he, who 
straining straight forward, and perhaps spatter- 
ing all about him, gains some of life's little emi- 
nencies, where, after all, he can only see and be 
seen a little more conspicuously than what, in 
the pride of his heart, he is apt to term the 
poor, indolent devil he has left behind him. 



August. 
A Prayer, when fainting fits, and other alarm- 
ug symptoms of a pleurisy or some other dan- 



gerous disorder, which indeed still threaten** uj« 
first put nature on the alarm : — 

O thou unknown, Almighty Cause 
Of all my hope and fear I 1 



August. 
Misgivings in the hour of despondency and 
prospect of death : — 

Why am I loth to leave this earthly scene. 2 



EGOTISMS FRO 31 MY OWN SENSATIONS. 

May. 
I don't well know what is the reason of it, 
but some how or other, though I am when I 
have a mind pretty generally beloved, yet I 
never could get the art of commanding respect. 
— I imagine it is owing to my being defi- 
cient in what Sterne calls " that understrapping 
virtue of discretion." — I am so apt to a lapsus 
Ungues, that I sometimes think the character of 
a certain great man I have read of somewhere 
is very much apropos to myself-— that he was a 
compound of great talents and great folly. — 
N. B. To try if I can discover the causes 
of this wretched infirmity, and, if possible, to 
mend it. 



August. 

However I am pleased with the works of our 
Scotch poets, particularly the excellent Ramsay, 
and the still more excellent Fergusson, yet 
I am hurt to see other places of Scotland, their 
towns, rivers, woods, haughs, &c. immortal- 
ized in such celebrated performances, while 
my dear native country, the ancient bailieries 
of Carrick, Kyle, and Cunningham, famous both 
in ancient and modern times for a gallant and 
warlike race of inhabitants ; a country where 
civil, and particularly religious liberty have 
ever found their first support, and their last 
asylum ; a country, the birth-place of many 
famous philosophers, soldiers, statesmen, and 
the scene of many important events recorded in 
Scottish history, particularly a great many of 
the actions of the glorious Wallace the Sa- 
viour of his country ; yet, we have never had 
one Scotch poet of any eminence, to make the 
fertile banks of Irvine, the romantic woodlands 
and sequestered scenes on Ayr, and the heathy 
mountainous source and winding sweep of Doon, 
emulate Tay, Forth, Ettrick, Tweed, &c. This 
is a complaint I would gladly remedy, but, alas ! 
I am far unequal to the task, both in native ge- 
nius and education. Obscure I am, and obscure 
I must be, though no young poet, nor young 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



237 



ecldier's heart, ever beat more fondly for fame 
than mine— 

" And if there is no other scene of being 
Where my insatiate wish may have its fill.— 
This something at my heart that heaves for room, 
My best, my dearest part, was made in vain." 



September. 
There is a great irregularity in the old Scotch 
songs, a redundancy of syllables with respect to 
that exactness of accent and measure that the 
English poetry requires, but which glides in, 
most melodiously, with the respective tunes to 
which they are set. For instance, the fine old 
song of " The Mill, Mill, 0,' n to give it a plain, 
prosaic reading, it halts prodigiously out of 
measure ; on the other hand, the song set to the 
same tune in Bremner's collection of Scotch 
songs, which begins " To Fanny fair could I im- 
part," &c. it is most exact measure, and yet, let 
them both be sung before a real critic, one 
above the biases of prejudice, but a thorough 
judge of nature, — how flat and spiritless will the 
last appear, how trite, and lamely methodicial, 
compared with the wild warbling cadence, the 
heart-moving melody of the first ! — This is par- 
ticularly the case with all those airs which end 
with a hypermetical syllable. There is a degree 
of wild irregularity in many of the compositions 
and fragments which are daily sung to them by 
my compeers, the common people — a certain 
happy arrangement of old Scotch syllables, and 
yet, very frequently, nothing, not even like 
rhyme, or sameness of jingle, at the ends of the 
lines. This has made me sometimes imagine 
that perhaps it might be possible for a Scotch 
poet, with a nice judicious ear, to set composi- 
tions to many of our most favourite airs, par- 
ticularly that class of them mentioned above, 
independent of rhyme altogether. 



There is a noble sublimity, a heart-melting 
tenderness, in some of our ancient ballads, which 
show them to be the work of a masterly hand : 
and it has often given me many a heart-ache to 
reflect that such glorious old bards — bards who 
very probably owed all their talents to native 
genius, yet have described the exploits of heroes, 
the pangs of disappointment, and the meltings 
of love, with such fine strokes of nature — that 
their very names (0 how mortifying to a bard's 
vanity !) are now "buried among the wreck of 
things which were." 

O ye illustrious names unknown ! who could 
feel so strongly and describe so well : the last, 
the meanest of the muses' train — one who, 
though far inferior to your flights, yet eyes your 
path, and with trembling wing would sometimes 
soar after you — a poor rustic bard unknown, 
pays this sympathetic pang to your memory ! 
Some of you tell us, with all the charms of verse, 
that you have been unfortunate in the world — 

l » TheMUl Mill, O" is by Allan Ramsay. 



unfortunate in love : he, too, has felt the loss 
of his little fortune, the loss of friends, and, 
worse than all, the loss of the woman he adored. 
Like you, all his consolation was his muse : she 
taught him in rustic measures to complain. 
■Happy could he have done it with your strength 
of imagination and flow of verse ! May the turf 
lie lightly on your bones ! and may you now en- 
joy that solace and rest which this world rarely 
gives to the heart tuned to all the feelings of 
poesy and love ! 



September. 

The following fragment is done something in 
imitation of the manner of a noble old Scottish 
piece, called M'Millan's Peggy, and sings to the 
tune of Galla Water. — My Montgomery's Peggy 
was my deity for six or eight months. She had 
been bred (though, as the world says, without 
any just pretence for it) in a style of life rather 
elegant ; but, as Vanbrugh says in one of his 
comedies, my " d — d star found me out" there 
too ; for though I began the affair merely in a 
gaietie de cceur, or, to tell the truth, which will 
scarcely be believed, a vanity of showing my 
parts in courtship, particularly my abilities at a 
billet-doux, which I always piqued myself upon, 
made me lay siege to her ; and when, as I always 
do in my foolish gallantries, I had fettered my- 
self into a very warm affection for her, she told 
me one day, in a flag of truce, that her fortress 
had been for some time before the rightful pro- 
perty of another ; but, with the greatest friend- 
ship and politeness, she offered me every alli- 
ance except actual possession. I found out af- 
terwards that what she told me of a pre-engage- 
ment was really true ; but it cost me some heart- 
aches to get rid of the affair. 

I have even tried to imitate in this extempore 
thing that irregularity in the rhymes, which, 
when judiciously done, has such a fine effect on 
the ear. 

" Altho' my bed were in yon muir." 1 



September. 
There is another fragment in imitation of an 
old Scotch song, well known among the country 
ingle sides. — I cannot tell the name, neither of 
the song nor the tune, but they are in fine unison 
with one another. — By the way, these old Scot- 
tish airs are so nobly sentimental, that when one 
would compose to them, to " south the tune," as 
our Scotch phrase is, over and over, is the readi- 
est way to catch the inspiration, and raise the 
bard into that glorious enthusiasm so strongly 
characteristic of our old Scotch poetry. I shall 
here set down one verse of the piece mentioned 
above, both to mark the song and tune I mean, 
and likewise as a debt I owe to the author, as 



238 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



the repeating of that verse has lighted up my 
flame a thousand times : — ■ 

When clouds in skies do come together 

To hide the brightness of the sun, 
Tli ere will surely be some pleasant weather 

When a' their storms are past and gone. 1 

Though fickle fortune has deceived me, 
She promis'd fair and perform' d but ill ; 

Of mistress, friends, and wealth bereav'd me, 
Yet I bear a heart shall support me still. 

I'll act with prudence as far as I'm able, 

But if success I must never find, 
Then come misfortune, I bid thee welcome, 

I'll meet thee with an undaunted mind. 

The above was an extempore, under the pres- 
sure of a heavy train of misfortunes, which, in- 
deed, threatened to undo me altogether. It was 
just at the close of that dreadful period men- 
tioned already, and though the weather has 
brightened up a little with me, yet there has 
always been since a tempest brewing round me 
in the grim sky of futurity, which I pretty plainly 
see will some time or other, perhaps ere long, 
overwhelm me, and drive me into some doleful 
dell, to pine in solitary, squalid wretchedness. — 
However, as I hope my poor country muse, who, 
all rustic, awkward, and unpolished as she is, 
has more charms for me than any other of the 
pleasures of life beside — as I hope she will not 
then desert me, I may even then learn to be, if 
not happy, at least easy, and south a sang to 
sooth my misery. 

'Twas at the same time I set about composing 
an air in the old Scotch style. — I am not musi- 
cal scholar enough to prick down my tune pro- 
perly, so it can never see the light, and perhaps 
'tis no great matter ; but the following were the 
verses I composed to suit it :— 

O raging fortune's withering blast 
Has laid my leaf full low, O ! 2 

The tune consisted of three parts, so that the 
above verses just went through the whole air. 



October, 1785. 
If ever any young man, in the vestibule of the 
"world, chance to throw his eye over these pages, 
let him pay a warm attention to the following 
observations, as I assure him they are the fruit 
of a poor devil's dear-bought experience. — I 
iiave literally, like that great poet and great gal- 
lant, and by consequence, that great fool, Solo- 
mon, " turned my eyes to behold madness and 
folly." Nay, I have, with all the ardour of a 
lively, fanciful, and whimsical imagination, ac- 
companied with a warm, feeling, poetic heart, 
shaken hands with their intoxicating friendship. 

• Alluding to the misfortunes lie feelingly laments before this 
/er.y. (This i; the author's note.) 

8 Song II. 



In the first place, let my pupil, as he tenders 
his own peace, keep up a regular, warm inter- 
course with the Deity. * * * * 

This is all worth quoting in my MSS. aud 
more than all. R. I*. 



IX. 

MONTROSE. 



[The elder Burns, whose death this letter intimates, lies 
the kirkyard of Alloway, with a tombstone recording his w 



Lochlea, Yith Feb. 1784. 
Dear Cousin, 

I would have returned you my thanks for 
your kind favour of the 13th of December sooner, 
had it not been that I waited to give you an ac- 
count of that melancholy event, which, for some 
time past, we have from day to day expected. 

On the 13th current I lost the best of fathers. 
Though, to be sure, we have had long warning 
of the impending stroke ; still the feelings of 
nature claim their part, and I cannot recollect 
the tender endearments and parental lessons of 
the best of friends and ablest of instructors, 
without feeling what perhaps the calmer dic- 
tates of reason would partly condemn. 

I hope my father's friends in your country 
will not let their connexion in this place die. 
with him. For my part I shall ever with plea- 
sure — with pride, acknowledge my connexioa 
with those who were allied by the ties of bloo 1 
and friendship to a man whose memory I shall 
ever honour and revere. 

I expect, therefore, my dear Sir, you will not 
neglect any opportunity of letting me hear from 
you, which will very much oblige, 

My dear Cousin, yours sincerely, 

it. a 



x. 

MONTROSE. 



[Mrs. Buchan, the forerunner in extravagance h:\d absurdity o t 
Joanna Southcote, after attempting; to fix her tent among the hills of 
the west and the vales of theNith, finally set up her staff at Auchen- 
gibbert-Hill, in Galloway, where she lectured her followers, and 
held out hopes of their reaching the stars, even in this life. She died 
early : one or two of her people, as she called them, survived till 
within these half-<iozen years.] 



Mossgiel, August, 1784. 
We have been surprised with one of the most 
extraordinary phenomena in the moral world 
which, I dare say, has happened in the course of 
this half century. We have hr.d a party of Pres- 
bytery relief, as they call themselves, for some 
time in this country. A pretty thriving society 



OF ROBERT BURNS- 



239 



of them has been in the burgh of Irvine for some 
years past, till about two years ago, a Mrs. Bu- 
chanfrom Glasgow came among them, and began 
to spread some fanatical notions of religion among 
them, and, in a short time, made many converts ; 
and, among others, their preacher, Mr. Whyte, 
who, upon that account, has been suspended and 
formally deposed by his brethren. He continued, 
however, to preach in private to his party, and 
was supported, both he and their spiritual mo- 
ther, as they affect to call old Buchan, by the 
contributions of the rest, several of whom were 
in good circumstances ; till, in spring last, the 
populace rose and mobbed Mrs. Buchan, and 
put her out of the town ; on which all her fol- 
lowers voluntarily quitted the place likewise, 
and with such precipitation, that many of them 
nover shut their doors behind them ; one left a 
washing on the green, another a cow bellowing 
at the crib without food, or any body to mind 
her, and after several stages, they are fixed at 
present in the neighbourhood of Dumfries. Their 
tenets are a strange jumble of enthusiastic jar- 
gon ; among others, she pretends to give them 
the Holy Ghost by breathing on them, which 
she does with postures and practices that are 
scandalously indecent ; they have likewise dis- 
posed of all their effects, and hold a community 
of goods, and live nearly an idle life, carrying 
on a great farce of pretended devotion in barns 
and woods, where they lodge and lie all together, 
and hold likewise a community of women, as it 
is another of their tenets that they can commit 
* no moral sin. I am personally acquainted with 
most of them, and I can assure you the above 
mentioned are facts. 

This, my dear Sir, is one of the many instances 
of the folly of leaving the guidance of sound rea- 
son and common sense in matters of religion. 

Whenever we neglect or despise these sacred 
monitors, the whimsical notions of a perturbated 
brain are taken for the immediate influences of 
the Deity, and the wildest fanaticism, and the 
most inconstant absurdities, will meet with abet- 
tors and converts. Nay, I have often thought, 
that the more out-of-the-way and ridiculous the 
fancies are, if once they are sanctified under the 
sacred name of religion, the unhappy mistaken 
votaries are the more firmlv glued to them. 

R, B. 



XL 

mi** 



| Tins nas generally been printed among the early Letters of Burns. 
Cromek thinks that the person addressed was the " Peggy" of the 
Common-place Book. This is questioned by Robert Chambers, 
who, however, leaves both name and date unsettled.] 



My dear Countrywoman, 
I am so impatient to show you that I am once 
more at peace with you, that I send you the book 



I mentioned directly, rather than wait the un- 
certain time of my seeing you. I am afraid I 
have mislaid or lost Collins 1 Poems, which I 
promised to Miss Irvin. If I can find them, 1 
will forward them by you; if not, you must 
apologize for me. 

I know you will laugh at is when I tell you 
that your piano and you together have played the 
deuce somehow about my heart. My breast has 
been widowed these many months, and I thought 
myself proof against the fascinating witchcraft 
but I am afraid you will " feelingly convince me 
what I am." I say, I am afraid, because I am 
not sure what is the matter with me. I have 
one miserable bad symptom ; when you whisper, 
or look kindly to another, it gives me a draught 
of damnation. I have a kind of wayward wish 
to be with you ten minutes by yourself, though 
what I would say, Heaven above knows, for I am 
sure I know not. I have no formed design in 
all this ; but just, in the nakedness of my heart, 
write you down a mere matter-of-fact story. 
You may perhaps give yourself airs of distance 
on this, and that will completely cure me ; but 
I wish you would not : just let us meet, if you 
please, in the old beaten way of friendship. 

I will not subscribe myself your humble ser- 
vant, for that is a phrase, I think, at least fifty 
miles off from the heart; but I will conclude 
with sincerely wishing that the Great Protector 
of innocence may shield you from the barbed 
dart of calumny, and hand you by the covert 
snare of deceit. 

R. B. 



XII. 

Za i$tr. ^ohn &trf)motu% 

EDINBURGH. 



[John Richmond, writer, one of the poet's lUr.uchline. friends, to 
whom we are indebted for much valuable information concerning 
Burns and his productions— Connel was the Mauchline carrier.] 



Feb. 17, 1786. 
My dear Si r, 

I have not time at present to upbraid you for 
your silence and neglect ; I shall only say I re- 
ceived yours with great pleasure. I have en- 
closed you a piece of rhyming ware for your pe- 
rusal. I have been very busy with the muses 
since I saw you, and have composed, among 
several others, "The Ordination," a poem on 
Mr. M'Kinlay's being called to Kilmarnock ; 
" Scotch Drink," a poem; " The Cotter's Satur- 
day Night ; " An Address to the Devil," &c. I 
have likewise completed my poem on the "Dogs," 
but have not shown it to the world. My chief 
patron now is Mr. Aiken, in Ayr, who is pleased 
to express great approbation of my works. Be 
so good as send me Fergusson, by Connel, and I 
will remit you the money. I have no news to 



240 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



acquaint you with about Mauchline, they are 
just going on in the old way. I have some very 
important news with respect to myself, not the 
most agreeable — news that I am sure you can- 
not guess, but I shall give you the particulars 
another time. I am extremely happy with 
Smitli ; he is the only friend I have now in 
Mauchline. I can scarcely forgive your long 
neglect of me, and I beg you will let me hear 
from you regularly by Connel. If you would 
act your part as a friend, I am sure neither good 
nor bad fortune should strange or alter me. 
Excuse haste, as I got yours but yesterday. 
I am, my dear Sir, 

Yours, 

R. B. 



XIII. 

DUMFRIES HOUSE. 



[Who the John Kennedy was to whom Burns addressed this note, 
enclosing "The Cotter's Saturday Night," it is now, perhaps, rain 
to enquire : the Kennedy to whom Mr. Cobbett introduces us was a 
Thomas — perhaps a relation. 1 



Mossgiel, 3rd March, 1786. 
Sir, 
I have done myself the pleasure of complying 
witb your request in sending you my Cottager. — 
If you have a leisure minute, I should be glad 
you would copy it, and return me either the ori- 
ginal or the transcript, as I have not a copy of it 
by me, and I have a friend who wishes to 
see it. 

"Now, Kennedy, if foot or horse," 1 

RoBT. BURNESS. 



XIV. 
®o 0Lx. ftobert Jftuir, 

KILMARNOCK. 



[The Muirs— there were two brothejs— were kind and generoospa- 
trons of the poet, they subscribed for half-a-hundred copies of the 
Kilmarnock edition of his works, and befriended him when friends 
were few.) 



Mossgiel, 20th March, 1786. 
Dear Sir, 
I am beartily sorry I had not the pleasure of 
seeing you as you returned through Mauchline ; 
but as I was engaged, I could not be in town be- 
fore the evening. 

« Poem LXXV 



I here enclose you my " Scotch Drink," and 

" may the follow with a blessing for your 

edification." I hope, some time before we hear 
the gowk, to have the pleasure of seeing you at 
Kilmarnock, when I intend we shall have a gill 
between us, in a mutchkin-stoup ; which will be 
a great comfort and consolation to, 
Dear Sir, 

Your humble servant, 

Robt. Burness. 



XV. 



[Robert Aiken, the gentleman to whom the " Cotter's Saturda* 
Night" is inscribed, is also introduced in the •« Brigs of Ayr ' 
This is the last letter to which Burns seems to have subscribed hi* 
name in the spelling of his ancestors.] 



Mossgiel, 3rd April, 1786. 
Dear Sir, 

I received your kind letter with double plea- 
sure, on account of the second flattering in» 
stance of Mrs. C.'s notice and approbation, I 
assure you I 

" Turn out the burnt side o'my shin," 

as the famous Ramsay, of jingling memory, says, 
at such a patroness. Present her my most 
grateful acknowledgment in your very best man- 
ner of telling truth. I have inscribed the fol- 
lowing stanza on the blank leaf of Miss 
More's Work : — 1 

My proposals for publishing I am just going 
to send to press. I expect to hear from you by 
the first opportunity. 

I am ever, dear Sir, 
Yours, 

ROBT. BURNESS, 



XVI. 



nnu, 



WRITER, AYR. 



[Mr. M'Whinnie obtained for Bums several subscriptions for tl 
first edition of his Poems, of which this note enclosed the prop* 
sala.1 

Mossgiel, 17 th April, 1786. 
It is injuring some hearts, those hearts that 
elegantly bear the impression of the good Cre- 
ator, to say to them you give them the trouble 
of obliging a friend ; for this reason, I only tell 
you that I gratify my own feelings in requesting 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



24 I 



your friendly offices with respect to the en- 
closed, because I know it will gratify yours to 
assist me in it to the utmost of your power. 

I have sent you four copies, as I have no less 
than eight dozen, which is a great deal more 
than I shall ever need. 

Be sure to remember a poor poet militant in 
your prayers. He looks forward with fear and 
trembling to that, to him, important moment 
which stamps the die with — with — with, per- 
haps, the eternal disgrace of, 
My dear Sir, 

Your humble, 

afflicted, tormented, 
Robert Burns. 



XVII. 



[*' The small piece,"' the very last of his productions, which the 
poet enclosed in this letter, was "The Mountain Daisy," called in 
the manuscript more properly " The Gowan."] 



Sir, 



Mossgiel, 20th April, 1708. 



By some neglect in Mr. Hamilton, I did not 
hear of your kind request for a subscription 
paper ' till this day. I will not attempt any ac- 
knowledgment for this, nor the manner in 
which I see your name in Mr. Hamilton's sub- 
scription list. Allow me only to say, Sir, I feel 
the weight of the debt. 

I have here likewise inclosed a small piece, 
the very latest of my productions. I am a good 
deal pleased with some sentiments myself, as 
they are just the nativo querulous feelings of 
a heart, which, as the elegantly melting Gray 
says, "melancholy has marked for her own." 

Our race comes on a-pace; that much-ex- 
pected scene of revelry and mirth ; but to me it 
brings no joy equal to that meeting with which 
vour last flattered the expectation of, 
Sir, 
Your indebted humble Servant, 

R. B. 



XVIII. 
^o J&on. $&mt$ j&mttf>, 

MAUCHLINE. 



[James Smith, of whom Burns said he was small of stature, Out 
large of soul, kept at that time a draper's shop in Mauchllne, and 
was comrade to the poet in many a wild adventuie.] 



Monday Morning, Mossgiel, 178ft 
My de^r Sir, 
I went to Dr. Douglas yesterday, fully re- 
solved to take the opportunity of "Captain Smith : 



but I found the Doctor with a Mr. and Mrs, 
White, both Jamaicans, and they have deranged 
my plans altogether. They assure him that to 
send me from Savannah la Mar to Port Antonio 
will cost my master, Charles Douglas, upwards 
of fifty pounds ; besides running the risk of 
throwing myself into a pleuritic fever, in conse- 
quence of hard travelling in the sun. On these 
accounts, he refuses sending me with Smith, 
but a vessel sails from Greenock the first of Sep- 
tember, right for the place of my destination. 
The Captain of her is an intimate friend of Mr. 
Gavin Hamilton's, and as good a fellow as heart 
could wish : with him I am destined to go. 
Where I shall shelter, I know not, but I hope to 
weather the storm. Perish the drop of blood of 
mine that fears them ! I know their worst, and 
am prepared to meet it : — 

" I'll laugh an' sing, an' shake my leg, 
As lang*s 1 dow." 

On Thursday morning, if you can muster as 
much self-denial as to be out of bed about seven 
o' clock, I shall see you as I ride through to 
Cumnock. After all, Heaven bless the sex ! 
I feel there is still happiness for me among 
them : — 



*♦ O woman, lovely woman Heaven designed you 
To temper man I— we had been brutes without you. ' 



R. B. 



XIX. 



| Burns was busy in a two-fold sense at present ; he was seeking 
patrons in every quarter for his contemplated volume, and lie was 
composing for it some of his most exquisite poetry.] 



Mossgiel, 16 Mag, 1786. 
Dear Sir, 
I have sent you the above hasty copy as I 
promised. In about three or four weeks I shall 
probably set the press a-going. I am umch 
hurried at present, otherwise your diligence, so 
very friendly in my subscription, should have & 
more lengthened acknowledgment from, 
Dear Sir, 
Your obliged Servant, 

R.B. 



i Otvrr.y. Venice Preservwi. 



24!> 



©o iWr. 33abtD £5rfc<>, 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 

XXI. 



flJatld Brice was a shoemaker, and shared with Smith the con- 
fidence of the poet in his love affairs. He was working in Glasgow 
wt.cri this letter was written. J 



Mossgiel, June 12, 1786. 
Dear Brice, 
I received your message by G. Paterson, and 
as I am not very throng at present, I just write 
to let you know that there is such a worthless, 
rhyming reprobate, as your humble servant, 
still in the land of the living, though I can 
scarcely say, in the place of hope. I have no 
news to tell you that will give me any pleasure 
to mention, or you to hear. 

Poor ill-advised ungrateful Armour came 
home on Friday last. You have heard all the 
particulars of that affair, and a black affair it is. 
What she thinks of her conduct now, I don't 
know ; one thing I do know — she has made me 
completely miserable. Never man loved, or 
rather adored a woman more than I did her ; 
and, to confess a truth between you and me, I 
do still love her to distraction after all, though 
I won't tell her so if I were to see her, which I 
don't want to do. My poor dear unfortunate 
Jean ! how happy have I been in thy arms ! It 
is not the losing her that makes me so unhappy, 
but for her sake I feel most severely : I foresee 
she is in the road to, I am afraid, eternal 
ruin. * * * * 

May Almighty God forgive her ingratitude 
and perjury to me, as I from my very soul for- 
give her : and may his grace be with her and 
bless her in all her future life ! I can have no 
nearer idea of the place of eternal punishment 
than what I have felt in my own breast on her 
account. I have tried often to forget her; I 
have run into all kinds of dissipation and riots, 
mason-meetings, drinking-matches, and other 
mischief, to drive her out of my head, but all in 
vain. And now for a grand cure ; the ship is 
on her way home that is to take me out to 
Jamaica ; and then, farewell dear old Scotland ! 
and farewell dear ungrateful Jean! for never 
never will I see you more. 

You will have heard that I am going to com- 
mence poet in print ; and to-morrow my works 
go to the press. I expect it will be a volume of 
about two hundred pages — it is just the last 
foolish action I intend to do ; and then turn a 
wise man as fast as possible. 

Believe me to be, dear Brice, 

Your friend and well-wisher. 

R. B. 



[This letter was wiitten under great distress of mind. Thar ?;•- 
paration which Burns records in " The Lament," had. nnhaupily. 
taken place between him and Jean Armour ; and it w ould appear, 
that, for a time at least, a coldness ensued between the poet and thfl 
patron, occasioned, it is conjectured, by that fruitful sub^tct if Kir- 
row and disquiet. The letter I regret to say is not wholly here.1 



Sir, 



[Ayrshire, 1786\] 



I was with Wilson, my printer, t'other day, 
and settled all our by-gone matters between us. 
After I had paid him all demands, I made him 
the offer of the second edition, on the hazard of 
being paid out of the first and readiest, which 
he declines. By his account, the paper of 
a thousand copies would cost about twenty- 
seven pounds, and the printing about fifteen or 
sixteen : he offers to agree to this for the print- 
ing, if I will advance for the paper, but this, you 
know, is out of my power ; so farewell hopes 
of a second edition till I grow richer ! an epocha 
which I think will arrive at the payment of the 
British national debt. 

There is scarcely any thing hurts me so much 
in being disappointed of my second edition, as 
not having it in my power to show my gratitude 
to Mr. Ballantyne, by publishing my poem of 
" The Brigs of Ayr." I would detest myself as 
a wretch, if I thought I were capable in a very 
long life of forgetting the honest, warm, and 
tender delicacy with which he enters into my 
interests. I am sometimes pleased with myself 
in my grateful sensations ; but I believe, on the 
whole, I have very little merit in it, as my gra- 
titude is not a virtue, the consequence of reflec- 
tion; but sheerly the instinctive emotion of 
my heart, too inattentive to allow worldly max- 
ims and views to settle into selfish habits. 

I have been feeling all the various rotations 
and movements within, respecting the excise. 
There are many things plead strongly against it ; 
the uncertainty of getting soon into business ; 
the consequences of my follies, which may per- 
haps make it impracticable for me to stay at 
home ; and besides I have for some time been 
pining under secret wretchedness, from causes 
which you pretty well know — the pang of dis- 
appointment, the sting of pride, with some wan- 
dering stabs of remorse, which never fail to set- 
tle on my vitals like vultures, when attention is 
not called away by the calls of society, or the 
vagaries of the muse. Even in the hour of so- 
cial mirth, my gaiety is the madness of an intox- 
icated criminal under the hands of the execu- 
tioner. All these reasons urge me to go abroad, 
and to all these reasons I have only one answer 
— the feelings of a father. This, in the present 
mood I am in, overbalances every thing that 
can be laid in the scale against it. * * * * 

You may perhaps think it an extravagant 
fancy, but it is a sentiment which strikes home 






OF ROBERT BURNS. 



•243 



to my very soul : though sceptical in some 
points of our current belief, yet, I think, I have 
every evidence for the reality of a life beyond the 
stinted bourne of our present existence ; if so, 
then, how should I, in the presence of that tre- 
mendous Being, the Author of existence, how 
should I meet the reproaches of those who stand 
to me in the dear relation of children, whom 
I deserted in the smiling innocency of helpless 
infancy ? O, thou great unknown Power ! — 
thou almighty God ! who has lighted up reason 
in my breast, and blessed me with immortality ! 
— I have frequently wandered from that order 
and regularity necessary for the perfection of 
thy works, yet thou hast never left me nor for- 
saken me ! * * * * 

Since I wrote the foregoing sheet, I have seen 
something of the storm of mischief thickening 
over my folly-devoted head. Should you, my 
friends, my benefactors, be successful in your 
applications for me, perhaps it may not be in 
my power, in that way, to reap the fruit of your 
friendly efforts. What I have written in the 
preceding pages, is the settled tenor of my pre- 
sent resolution; but should inimical circum- 
stances forbid me closing with your kind offer, 
or enjoying it only threaten to entail farther 

misery * * * * 

To tell the truth, I have little reason for com- 
plaint ; as the world, in general, has been kind 
to me fully up to my deserts. I was, for some 
time past, fast getting into the pining, distrust- 
ful snarl of the misanthrope. I saw myself 
alone, unfit for the struggle of life, shrinking at 
every rising cloud in the chance-directed atmo- 
sphere of fortune, while all defenceless I looked 
about in vain for a cover. It never occurred to 
me, at least never with the force it deserved, 
that this world is a busy scene, and man, a crea- 
ture destined for a progressive struggle; and 
that, however I might possess a warm heart 
and inoffensive manners (which last, by the by, 
was rather more than I could well boast) ; still, 
more than these passive qualities, there was 
something to be done. When all my school- 
fellows and youthful compeers (those misguided 
few excepted who joined, to use a Gentoo 
phrase, the " hallachores" of the human race) 
were striking off with eager hope and earnest 
intent, in some one or other of the many paths 
of busy life, I was " standing idle in the market- 
place," or only left the chase of the butterfly 
from flower to flower, to hunt fancy from whim 
to whim. * * * * 

You see, Sir, that if to know one's errors 
were a probability of mending them, I stand a 
fair chance ; but according to the reverend 
Westminster divines, though conviction must 
precede conversion, it is very far from always 
in) plying it. * * * * 

R.B. 



XXII. 

Zo 3Joi)n ftufjnionU, 

EDINBURGH. 



[The minister who took upon him to pronounce Burn asingl; 
man, as he intimates in this letter, was the Rev. Mr. Auld, of 
Mauchline : that the law of the land and the law of the chuich 
were at variance on the subject no one can deny.J 



Mossgiel, Mth July, 1786. 
My dear Friend, 

With the sincerest grief I read your letter. 
You are truly a son of misfortune. I shall be 
extremely anxious to hear from you how your 
health goes on ; if it is in any way re-establishing, 
or if Leith promises well ; in short, how you feel 
in the inner man. 

No news worth any thing : only godly Bryan 
was in the inquisition yesterday, and half the 
country-side as witnesses against him. lie still 
stands out steady and denying: but proof was 
led yesternight of circumstances highly suspi- 
cious : almost de facto, one of the servant girls 
made faith that she upon a time rashly entered 
the house — to speak in your cant, " in the hour 
of cause." 

I have waited on Armour since her return 
home ; not from any the least view of reconcili- 
ation, but merely to ask for her health and — to 
you I will confess it — from a foolish hankering 
fondness — very ill placed indeed. The mother 
forbade me the house, nor did Jean show the 
penitence that might have been expected. How- 
ever the priest, I am informed, will give me a 
certificate as a single man, if I comply with the 
rules of the church, which for that very reason 
I intend to do. 

I am going to put on sack-cloth and ashes 
tins day. I am indulged so far as to appear in 
my own seat. Peccavi, pater, miserere met. My 
book will be ready in a fortnight. If you have 
any subscribers return them by Conn el. The 
Lord stand with the righteous : amen, amen. 

R.B. 



XXIII. 

$of)n IfaUantgne, 



[There Is a plain account in this letter of the destruction of tho 
lines of marriage which united, as far as a civil contract in a matter 
civil can, the poet and Jean Armour. Aiken was consulted, nnd in 
consequence of his advice the certificate of marriage was destroyed] 



Honoured Sir, 
My proposals came to hand last night, and 
knowing that you would wish to have it in your 
power to do me a service as early as any 



•244 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



body, I enclose you half a sheet of them. I 
must consult you, first opportunity, on the pro- 
priety of sending my quondam friend, Mr. 
Aiken, a copy. If he is now reconciled to my 
character as an honest man, I would do it with 
all my soul ; hut I would not be beholden to the 
noblest being ever God created, if he imagined 
me to be a rascal. Apropos, old Mr. Armour 
prevailed with him to mutilate that unlucky 
paper yesterday. Would you believe it ? though 
I had not a hope, nor even a wish^ to make her 
mine after her conduct; yet, when he told me 
the names were all out of the paper, my heart 
died within me, and he cut my veins with the 
news. Perdition seize her falsehood ! 

R.B. 



XXIV. 
2To 0lx. Tahiti 23rtcc, 

SHOEMAKER, GLASGOW. 



[The letters of Burns at this sad period of his life are full of his pri- 
vate sorrows. Had Jean Armour been left to the guidance of her 
own heart the story of her early years would have been brighter.] 



Mossgiel, Ylth July, 1786. 
I have been so throng printing my Poems, 
that I could scarcely find as much time as to 
write to you. Poor Armour is come back again 
to Mauchline, and I went to call for her, and her 
mother forbade me the house, nor did she her- 
self express much sorrow for what she has done. 
I have already appeared publicly in church, and 
was indulged in the liberty of standing in my 
own seat. I do this to get a certificate as a bache- 
lor, which Mr. Auld has promised me. I am 
now fixed to go for the "West Indies in October. 
Jean and her friends insisted much that she 
should stand along with me in the kirk, 
but the minister would not allow it, which 
bred a great trouble I assure you, and I am 
blamed as the cause of it, though I am sure I am 
innocent ; but I am very much pleased, for all 
that, not to have had her company. I have no 
news to tell you that I remember. I am really 
happy to hear of your welfare, and that you are 
so well in Glasgow. I must certainly see you 
before I leave the country. I shall expect to 
hear from you soon, and am, 

Dear Brice, 

Yours,— R. B. 



XXV. 

2Fo J&r. 3Jofm ftte&monb. 



[When this letter was written the poet was skulking from place ta 
place : the merciless pack of the law had been uncoupled at his heel*. 
Mr. Armour did not wish to imprison, but to drive him from rNa 
country..! 



Old Rome Forest, 30th July, 1786. 
My dear Richmond, 
My hour is now come — you and I will never 
meet in Britain more. I have orders, within 
three weeks at farthest, to repair aboard the 
Nancy, Captain Smith, from Clyde to Jamaica, 
and call at Antigua. This, except to our friend 
Smith, whom God long preserve, is a secret 
about Mauchline. Would you believe it ? Ar- 
mour has got a warrant to throw me in jail till 
I find security for an enormous sum. This they 
keep an entire secret, but I got it by a channel 
they little dream of ; and I am wandering from 
one friend's house to another, and, like a true 
son of the gospel, "have nowhere to lay my 
head." I know you will pour an execration on 
her head, but spare the poor, ill-advised girl, for 
my sake ; though may all the furies that rend 
the injured, enraged lover's bosom, await her 
mother until her latest hour ! I write in a mo- 
ment of rage, reflecting on my miserable situa- 
tion — exiled, abandoned, forlorn. I can write 
no more — let me hear from you by the return 
of coach. I will write you ere I go. 
I am, dear Sir, 

Yours, here and hereafter, 

R. B. 



XXVI. 

KILMARNOCK. 



[Burns never tried to conceal either his joys or his sorrows : he sent 
copies of his favourite pieces, and intimations of much that befel hira 
to his chief friends and comrades— this brief note was made to carry 
double.] 



Mossgiel, Friday noon. 
My Friend, my Brother, 

Warm recollection of an absent friend presses 
so hard upon my heart, that I send him the 
prefixed bagatelle (the Calf), pleased with the 
thought that it will greet the man of my bosom, 
and be a kind of distant language of friendship. 

You will have heard that poor Armour has 
repaid me double. A very fine boy and a girl 
have awakened a thought and feelings that thrill, 
some with tender pressure and some with fore- 
boding anguish through my soul. 

The poem was nearly an extemporaneous pro- 
duction, on a wager with Mr. Hamilton, that I 



OF ROBERT BUHNS. 



246 



would not produce a poem on the subject in. a 
given time. 

If you think it worth while, read it to Charles 
and Mr. W. Parker, and if they choose a copy 
of it, it is at theirservice, as they are men whose 
friendship I shall be proud to claim, both in this 
world and that which is to come. 

I believe all hopes of staying at home will be 
abortive, but more of this when, in the latter 
part of next week, you shall be troubled with a 
visit from, 

My dear Sir, 

Your most devoted, 

R. B. 



XXVII 

or DUNLOP. 



f Mrs. Dunlop was a poetess, and had the blood of the Wallaces 
n> her veins : though she disliked the irregularities of the poet, she 
scorned to get into a fine moral passion about follies which could not 
be helped, and continued her friendship to the last of his life.] 

Ayrshire j 1786. 
Madam, 
I am truly sorry I was not at home yesterday, 
when I was so much honoured with your order 
for my copies, and incomparably more by the 
handsome compliments you are pleased to pay 
my poetic abilities. I am fully persuaded that 
there is not any class of mankind so feelingly 
alive to the titillations of applause as the sons of 
Parnassus : nor is it easy to conceive how the 
heart of the poor bard dances with rapture, when 
those, whose character in life gives them a right 
to be polite judges, honour him with their ap- 
probation. Had you been thoroughly acquainted 
with me, Madam, you could not have touched 
my darling heart-chord more sweetly than by 
noticing my attempts to celebrate your illustri- 
ous ancestor, the Saviour of his Country. 

" Great patriot hero ! ill-requited chief !" i 

The first book I met with in my early years, 
which I perused with pleasure, was, " The Life 
of Hannibal;" the next was, " The History of 
Sir William Wallace :' ' for several of my earlier 
years I had few other authors ; and many a soli- 
tary hour have I stole out, after the laborious 
vocations of the day, to shed a tear over their 
glorious, but unfortunate stories. In those boy- 
ish days I remember, in particular, being struck 
with that part of Wallace's story where these 
lines occur— 

"syne to the Leglen wood, when it was late, 
To make a silent and a safe r< 



I chose a fine tmimner Sunday, the only day 
my line of life allowed, and walked half a dozen 



of miles to pay my respects to the Leglen wood, 
with as much devout enthusiasm as ever pilgrim 
did to Loretto ; and, as I explored every den 
and dell where I could suppose my heroic coun- 
tryman to have lodged, I recollect (for even then 
I was a rhymer) that my heart glowed with a 
wish to be able to make a song on him in some 
measure equal to his merits. 

R. B. 



XXVIII 
&o #tr. 3Jofm lUnneDg. 



[It is a curious chapter in the life of Hums to count the numf-ei 
of letters which he wrote, the number of fine poems he compesed, 
and the number of places which he visited in the unhappy surmn 
and autumn of 1786.] 



Kilmarnock, August, 178C. 
My dear Sir, 
Your truly facetious epistle of the 3rd inst. 
gave me much entertainment. I was sorry I 
had not the pleasure of seeing you as I passed 
your way, but we shall bring up all our lee way 
on Wednesday, the 16th current, when I hope 
to have it in my power to call on you and take 
a kind, very probably a last adieu, before I go 
for Jamaica ; and I expect orders to repair to 
Greenock every day. — I have at last made my 
public appearance, and am solemnly inaugurated 
into the numerous class. — Could I have got a 
carrier, you should have had a score of vouchers 
for my authorship ; but now you have them, let 
them speak for themselves. — 

Farewell, my dear friend ! may guid luck hit 

you, 
And 'mang her favorites admit you ! 
If e'er Detraction shore to smit you, 

May nane believe him ! 
And ony de'il that thinks to get you, 

Good Lord deceive him. 

R. B. 



XXIX 

MONTROSE. 



[The good and generous.James Burness, of Montrose, was ever ready 
to rejoice with his cousin's success or sympathize with his sorrows, 
but he did not like the change which came over the old northern sur- 
name of Burness, when the bard modified it into Burns, the nama 
now a rising one in India, is spelt Burnes.] 

Mossgiel, Tuesday noon, Sept. 26, 1786. 
My dear Sir, 
I this moment receive yours — receive it with 
the honest hospitable warmth of a friend's wel- 

3 R 



246 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



come. Whatever comes from you wakens al- 
ways up the better blood about my heart, which 
your kind little recollections of my parental 
friends carries as far as it will go. 'Tis there 
that man is blest! 'Tis there, my friend, 
man feels a consciousness of something within 
him above the trodden clod ! The grateful re- 
verence to the hoary (earthly) author of his 
being — the burning glow when he clasps the 
woman of his soul to his bosom — the tender 
yearnings of heart for the little angels to whom 
he has given existence — these nature has poured 
in milky streams about the human heart ; and 
the man who never rouses them to action, by 
the inspiring influences of their proper objects, 
loses by far the most pleasurable part of his ex- 
istence. 

My departure is uncertain, but I do not think 
it will be till after harvest. I will be on very 
short allowance of time indeed, if I do not com- 
ply with your friendly invitation. "When it will 
be I don't know, but if I can make my wish 
good, I will endeavour to drop you a line some 
time before. My best compliments to Mrs. 

; I should [be] equally mortified should I 

drop in when she is abroad, but of that I suppose 
there is little chance. 

What I have wrote heaven knows ; I have 
not time to review it ; so accept of it in the 
beaten way of friendship. With the ordinary 
phrase — perhaps rather more than the ordinary 
sincerity, 

I am, dear Sir, 

Ever yours, 

R. B. 



XXX. 



[This letter, Robert Chambers says, concluded with requesting 
Miss Alexander to allow the poet to print the song which it enclosed, 
in a second edition of his Poems. Her neglect in not replying to this 
request is a very good poetic reason for his wrath. Many of Bums' 
letters have been printed, it is right to say, from the rough drafts 
found among the poet's papers at his death. This is one.] 



Mossgiel, \&th Nov. 1786. 
Madam, 

Poets are such outre' beings, so much the 
children of wayward fancy and capricious whim, 
that I believe the world generally allows them a 
larger latitude in the laws of propriety, than the 
sober sons of judgment and prudence. I men- 
tion this as as an apology for the liberties that a 
nameless stranger has taken with you in the in- 
closed poem, which he begs leave to present you 
with. Whether it has poetical merit any way 
worthy of the theme, I am not the proper judge ; 
but it is the best my abilities can produce ; and 
what to a good heart will, perhaps, be a superior 
grace, it is equally sincere as fervent. 



The scenery was nearly taken from real life, 
though I dare say, Madam, you do not recollect 
it, as I believe you scarcely noticed the poetic 
reveur as he wandered by you. I had roved out 
as chance directed, in the favourite haunts of 
my muse on the banks of the Ayr, to view nature 
in all the gaiety of the vernal year. The even- 
ing sun was flaming over the distant western 
hills ; not a breath stirred the crimson opening 
blossom, or the verdant spreading leaf. It was 
a golden moment for a poetic heart. I listened 
to the feathered warblers, pouring their harmony 
on every hand, with a congenial kindred regard, 
and frequently turned out of my path, lest I 
should disturb their little songs, or frighten them 
to another station. Surely, said I to myself, he 
must be a wretch indeed, who, regardless of your 
harmonious endeavour to please him, can eye your 
elusive flights to discover your secret recesses, 
and to rob you of all the property nature gives 
you — your dearest comforts, your helpless nest- 
lings. Even the hoary hawthorn twig that shot 
across the way, what heart at such a time but 
must have been interested in its welfare, and 
wished it preserved from the rudely-browsing 
cattle, or the withering eastern blast ? Such 
was the scene, — and such the hour, when, in a 
corner of my prospect, I spied one of the fairest 
pieces of nature's workmanship that ever 
crowned a poetic landscape or met a poet's eye, 
those visionary bards excepted, who hold com- 
merce with aerial beings ! Had Calumny and 
Villany taken my walk, they had at that moment 
sworn eternal peace with such an object. 

What an hour of inspiration for a poet ! It 
would have raised plain dull historic prose into 
metaphor and measure. 

The enclosed song was the work of my return 
home : and perhaps it but poorly answers what 
might have been expected from such a scene. 
I have the honour to be, 
Madam, 
Your most obedient and very 
humble Servant, 

R. B. 



XXXI. 

%o ite. gtefoaii, 

OF STAIR AND AFTON. 



[Mrs. Stewart, of Stair and Afton, was the first person of note in the 
West who had the taste -o see and feel the genius of Burns, He used 
to relate how his heart fluttered when he first walked into the par- 
lour of the towers of Stair, to hear that lady's opinion of some of his 
songs.] 

[1786.] 
Madam, 
The hurry of my preparations for going abroad 
has hindered me from performing my promise so 
soon as I intended. I have here sent you a par- 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



247 



eel of songs, &c, which never made their appear- 
Oiice, except to a friend or two at most. Per- 
haps some of them may be no great entertain- 
ment to you, but of that I am far from being an 
adequate judge. The song to the tune of "Et- 
trick Banks" [The bonnie lass of Ballochmyle] 
you will easily see the impropriety of exposing 
much, even in manuscript. I think, myself, it 
has some merit : both as a tolerable description 
of one of nature's sweetest scenes, a July even- 
ing, and one of the finest pieces of nature's 
workmanship, the finest indeed we know any- 
thing of, an amiable, beautiful young woman ; x 
but I have no common friend to procure me that 
permission, without which I would not dare to 
spread the copy. 

I am quite aware, Madam, what task the world 
would assign me in this letter. The obscure 
bard, when any of the great condescend to take 
notice of him, should heap the altar with the in- 
cense of flattery. Their high ancestry, their 
own great and god-like qualities and actions, 
should be recounted with the most exaggerated 
description. This, Madam, is a task for which I 
am altogether unfit. Besides a certain disquali- 
fying pride of heart, I know nothing of your 
connexions in life, and have no access to where 
your real character is to be found — the company 
of your compeers : and more, I am afraid that 
even the most refined adulation is by no means 
the road to your good opinion. 

One feature of your character I shall ever with 
grateful pleasure remember; — the reception I 
got when I had the honour of waiting on you at 
Stair. I am little acquainted with politeness, 
but I know a good deal of benevolence of tem- 
per and goodness of heart. Surely did those in 
exalted stations know how happy they could 
make some classes of their inferiors by conde- 
scension and affability, they would never stand 
so high, measuring out with every look the height 
of their elevation, but condescend as sweetly as 
did Mrs. Stewart of Stair. 

R. B. 



XXXII. 

Xn tijt name of tf)e Nine. ®men 



[The song or ballad which one of the " Deil's yeld Nowte, was 
commanded to burn, was " Holy Willie's Prayer," it is believed. 
Currie interprets the Deil's yeld Nowte," to mean old bachelors, 
which, if right, points to some other of his compositions, for purga- 
tion by fire. Gilbert Burns says it is a scoffing appellation sometimes 
given to sheriffs' officers and other executors of the law.] 



"We, Robert Burns, by virtue of a warrant from 
Nature, bearing date the twenty-fifth day of 
January, Anno Domini one thousand seven 

1 lAlss Alexander. 



hundred and fifty-nine, 1 Pcet Laureat, and 
Bard in Chief, in and over the districts and 
countries of Kyle, Cunningham, and Carrick, of 
old extent, To our trusty and well-beloved 
William Chalmers and John M'Adam, students 
and practitioners in the ancient and mysterious 
science of confounding right and wrong> 

Right Trusty : 

Be it known unto you that whereas in the 
course of our care aiid watchings over the order 
and police of all and sundry the manufacturers, 
retainers, and venders of poesy ; bards, poets, 
poetasters, rhymers, jinglers, songsters, bal- 
lad-singers, &c. &c. &c. &c, male and female 
— We have discovered a certain nefarious, 
abominable, and wicked song or ballad, a copy 
whereof We have here inclosed; Our Will 
therefore is, that Ye pitch upon and appoint the 
most execrable individual of that most execrable 
species, known by the appellation, phrase, and 
nick-name of The Deil's Yeld Nowte : and after 
having caused him to kindle a fire at the Cross 
of Ayr, ye shall, at noontide of the day, put into 
the said wretch's merciless hands the said copy 
of the said nefarious and wicked song, to be 
consumed by fire in the presence of all beholders, 
in abhorrence of, and terrorem to, all such com- 
positions and composers. And this in nowise 
leave ye undone, but have it executed in every 
point as this our mandate bears, before the 
twenty-fourth current, when in person We 
hope to applaud your faithfulness and zeal. 

Given at Mauchline this twentieth day of No- 
vember, Anno Domini one thousand seven hun- 
dred and eighty-six. 

God save the Bard ! 



XXXIII. 
%o 0lv. Robert i&utr. 



[The expedition to Edinburgh, to which this short letter allude;, 
was undertaken, it is needless to say, iu consequence of a warm and 
generous commendation of the genius of Burns written by Dr. 
Blacklook, to the Rev. Mr. Lawrie, and communicated by Gavir. 
Hamilton to the poet, when he was on the wing for the West 
Indies. 1 



Mossgiel, 18th Nov. 1786. 
My dear Sir, 
Inclosed you have Ci Tam Samson," as I in- 
tend to print him. I am thinking for my Edin- 
burgh expedition on Monday or Tuesday, come 
se'ennight, for pas. I will see you on Tuesday 
first. 

I am ever, 

Your much indebted, 

R.B. 



i His WrU»-vlA7. 



248 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



XXXIV. 

STo Br. JHacfcen?(e, 

MAUCHLINE; 

ENCLOSING THE VERSES ON DINING WITH 
LORD DAER. 



[To the kind and venerable Dr. Mackenzie, the poet was indebted for 
some valuable friendships, and his biographers for some valuable in- 
formation, respecting the early days of Burns. J 



Wednesday Morning. 
Dear Sir, 
1 never spent an afternoon among great 
folks with half that pleasure as when, in com- 
pany with you, I had the honour of paying my 
devoirs to that plain, honest, worthy man, the 
professor. [Dugald Stewart.] I would be de- 
lighted to see him perform acts of kindness and 
friendship, though I were not the object ; he 
does it with such a grace. I think his character, 
divided into ten parts, stands thus — four parts 
Socrates — four parts Nathaniel — and two parts 
Shakspeare's Brutus. 

The foregoing verses were really extempore, 
but a little corrected since. They may enter- 
tain you a little with the help of that partiality 
with which you are so good as to favour the 
performances of, 

Dear Sir, 

Your very humble Servant, 
R.B. 



xxxv 

2To ffiabin Hamilton, €t&q. 

MAUCHLINE. 



[From Gavin Hamilton Burns and his brother took the farm of 
Mnssgiel : the landlord was not slow in perceiving the genius of 
Hubert: he had him frequently at his table, and the poet repaid this 
notice by verse not likely soon to die.] 



Edinburgh, Dec. 1th, 1786- 
Honoured Sir, 
I have paid every attention to your com- 
mands, but can only say what perhaps you will 
have heard before this reach you, that Muirkirk- 
lands were bought by a John Gordon, W. S., but 
for whom I know not ; Mauchlands, Haugh, 
Miln, &c,bya Frederick Fotheringham, sup- 
posed to be for Ballochmyle Laird, and Adam- 
bill and Shawood were bought for Oswald's 
folks. — This is so imperfect an account, and 
will be so late ere it reach you, that were it not 
to discharge my conscience I would not trouble 



you with it ; but after all my diligence I could 
make it no sooner nor better. 

For my own affairs, I am in a fair way of be- 
coming as eminent as Thomas a Kempis or John 
Bunyan; and you may expect henceforth to see 
my birth-day inserted among the wonderful 
events^ In the Poor Robin's and Aberdeen Al- 
manacks, along with the black Monday, and the 
battle of Bothwell bridge. — My Lord Glencairn 
and the Dean of Faculty, Mr. H. Erskine, 
have taken me under their wing ; and by all 
probability I shall soon be the tenth worthy, 
and the eighth wise man of the world. Through 
my lord's influence it is inserted in the records 
of the Caledonian Hunt, that they universally, 
one and all, subscribe for the second edition. — 
My subscription bills come out to-morrow, and 
you shall have some of them next post. — I have 
met, in Mr. Dalrymple, of Orangefield, what 
Solomon emphatically calls " A friend that 
sticketh closer than a brother." — The warmth 
with which he interests himself in my affairs is 
of the same enthusiastic kind which you, Mr. 
Aiken and the few patrons that took notice of 
my earlier poetic days showed for the poor un- 
lucky devil of a poet. 

I always remember Mrs. Hamilton and Miss 
Kennedy in my poetic prayers, but you both in 
prose and verse. 

May cauld ne'er catch you but a hap, 
Nor hunger but in plenty's lap ! 
Amen ! 

R.B. 



XXXVI. 

3)ofm iflallantgne, lEgq., 

BANKER, AYR. 



[This is the second letter which Burns wrote, after his arriva. m 
Edinburgh, and it is remarkable because it distinctly imputes his 
introduction to the Earl of Glencairn, to Dalrymple, of Orangefield ; 
though he elsewhere says this was done by Mr. Dalzell ;— perhaps both 
those gentlemen had a hand in this good deed.] 



Edinburgh, 13th Dec. 1786. 

My honoured Friend, 
I would not write you till I could have it in my 
power to give you some account of myself and my 
matters, which, by the by, is often no easy task. 
— I arrived here on Tuesday was se'nnight, and 
have suffered ever since I came to town with a 
miserable head-ache and stomach complaint, 
but am now a good deal better. — I have found a 
worthy warm friend in Mr. Dalrymple, of 
Orangefield, who introduced me to Lord Glen- 
cairn, a man whose worth and brotherly kind- 
ness to me, I shall remember when time shall 



OF ROBKRT RURNS. 



yta 



be no more. — By his interest it is passed in the 
M Caledonian Hunt," and entered in their books, 
that they are to take each a copy of the second 
edition, for which they are to pay one guinea. — 
I have been introduced to a good many of the 
noblesse, but my avowed patrons and patronesses 
are the Duchess of Gordon — the Countess of 
Glencairn. with my Lord, and Lady Betty 1 — 
the Dean of Faculty — Sir John Whitefoord. — I 
have likewise warm friends among the literati ; 
Professors Stewart, Blair, and Mr. Mackenzie — 
the Man of Feeling. — An unknown hand left ten 
guineas for the Ayrshire bard with Mr. Sibbald, 
which I got.— I since have discovered my gene- 
rous unknown friend, to be Patrick Miller, 
Esq., brother to the Justice Clerk ; and drank 
a glass of claret with him, by invitation, 
at his own house, yesternight. I am nearly 
agreed with Creech to print my book, and I 
suppose I will begin on Monday. I will send a 
subscription bill or two, next post ; when I in- 
tend writing my first kind patron, Mr. Aiken. 
I saw his son to-day, and he is very well. 

Dugald Stewart, and some of my learned 
friends, put me in the periodical paper, called 
The Lounger, 2 a copy of which I here enclose 
you. — I was, Sir, when I was first honoured 
with your notice, too obscure ; now I tremble 
lest I should be ruined by being dragged too sud- 
denly into the glare of polite and learned ob- 
servation. 

I shall certainly, my ever-honoured patron, 
write you an account of my every step ; and 
better health and more spirits may enable me 
to make it something better than this stupid 
matter-of-fact epistle. 

I have the honour to be, 
Good Sir, 
Your ever grateful humble servant, 
R.B. 

If any of my friends write me, my direction 
Is, care of Mr. Creech, bookseller. 



XXXVII. 
2To J&r. Mount i#tim\ 



,'" Muir, thy weaknesses," «ay 8 Bams, writing of this gentleman 
to Mrs. Dunlop, " thy weaknesses were the aberrations of human 
nature ; but thy heart glowed with every thing generous, manly, ;.nd 
noble : and if ever emanation from the All-good Being animated a 
human form, it was thine. J 

Edin^rgh, Dec. 20th, 1786. 
My dear Friend, 
I have just time for the carrier, to tell you that 
I received your letter; of which I shall say no 
more but what a lass of my acquaintance said of 



1 Lady Betty Cunningham. 

* The paper "here alludedto, was written by Mr. Mackenzie, the ce- 
rhrifd author of " The Man of Feeling." 



her bastard wean ; she said she " did na ken 
wha was the father exactly, but she suspected it 
was some o' the bonny blackguard smugglers, for 
it was like them." So I only say your obliging 
epistle was like you. I enclose you a parcel of 
subscription bills. Your affair of sixty copies 
is also like you ; but it would not be like me 
to comply. 

Your friend's notion of my life has put a 
crotchet in my head of sketching it in some fu- 
ture epistle to you. My compliments to Charles 
and Mr. Parker. 

R. B. 



XXXVI11. 
£o i#tr. TOUtam @fjalmer& f 



WRITER, AYR. 



[William Chalmers drew out the assignment of the copyright r>f 
Burns' Poems, in favour of his brother Gilbert, and for the main 
tenance of his natural child, when engaged to go to the West Indies 
in the autumn of 1786.] 



Edinburgh, Dec. 27, 1786. 
My dear Friend, 

I confess I have sinned the sin for which 
there is hardly any forgiveness— ingratitude to 
friendship — in not writing you sooner ; but of 
all men living, I had intended to have sent you 
an entertaining letter ; and by all the plodding, 
stupid powers, that in nodding, conceited ma- 
jesty, preside over the dull routine of business — 
a heavily solemn oath this ! — I am, and havo 
been, ever since I came to Edinburgh, as unfit 
to write a letter of humour, as to write a com- 
mentary on the Revelation of St. John the Di- 
vine, who was banished to the Isle of Patmos, by 
the cruel and bloody Domitian, son to Vespasian 
and brother to Titus, both emperors of Rome, 
and who was himself an emperor, and raised the 
second or third persecution, I forget which, 
against the Christians, and after throwing the 
said Apostle John, brother to the Apostle James, 
commonly called James the Greater, to distin- 
guish him from another James, who was, on some 
account or other, known by the name of James 
the Less — after throwing him into a cauldron of 
boiling oil, from which he was miraculously 
preserved, he banished the poor son of Zebedee 
to a desert island in the Archipelago, where 
he was gifted with the second sight, and saw as 
many wild beasts as I have seen since I came to 
Edinburgh ; which, a circumstance not very un- 
common in story telling, brings me back to 
where I set out. 

To make you some amends for what, before 
you reach this paragraph, you will have suffered, 
I enclose you two poems I have carded and spun 
since I past Glen buck. 



250 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



One blank in the address to Edinburgh— 

" Fair B ," is heavenly Miss Burnet, 

daughter to Lord Monboddo, at whose house I 
have had the honour to be more than once. 
There has not been anything nearly like her in 
all the combinations of beauty, grace, and good- 
ness the great Creator has formed since Milton's 
Eve on the first day of her existence. 

My direction is — care of Andrew Bruce, mer- 
chant, Bridge-street. 

R. B. 



XXXIX. 

^o fyt (£ad of (£gltntotm. 



f Archibald Montgomery, eleventh Earl of Eglinton, and Colonel 
Hugh Montgomery, of Coilsfield, who succeeded his brother in his 
titles and estates, were patrons, and kind ones, of Burns.; 



Edinburgh, January {737. 
M v Lord, 
As I have but slender pretensions to philoso- 
phy, I cannot rise to the exalted ideas of a citi- 
zen of the world, but have all those national 
prejudices, which I believe glow peculiarly 
strong in the breast of a Scotchman. There is 
scarcely any thing to which I am so feelingly 
alive as the honour and welfare of my country : 
and, as a poet, I have no higher enjoyment than 
singing her sons and daughters. Fate had cast 
my station in the veriest shades of life ; but 
never did a heart pant more ardently than 
mine to be distinguished; though, till very 
lately, I looked in vain on every side for a 
ray of light. It is easy then to guess how 
much I was gratified with the countenance and 
approbation of one of my country's most illus- 
trious sons, when Mr. Wauchope called on 
me yesterday on the part of your lordship. Your 
munificence, my lord, certainly deserves my 
very grateful acknowledgments ; but your pa- 
tronage is a bounty peculiarly suited to my 
feelings. I am not master enough of the eti- 
quette of life to know, whether there be not 
some impropriety in troubling your lordship 
with my thanks, but my heart whispered me to 
do it. From the emotions of my inmost soul I 
do it. Selfish ingratitude I hope I am incapable 
of; and mercenary servility, I trust, I shall ever 
have so much honest pride as to detest. 

R.B. 



XL 



€0 ittr. &abm Hamilton, 



[This letter was first published by Robert Chambers, who rx>»« 
sidered it as closing the inquiry, "was Burns a married man?" Ne 
doubt Burns thought himself unmarried, and the Rev. Mr. Auld 
was of the same opinion, since he offered him a certificate that he 
was single: but no opinion of priest or lawyer, including the 
disclamation of Jean Armour, and the belief of Burns, could have, 
in my opinion, barred the claim of the children to full legitimacy* 
according to the law of Scotland.) 



Edinburgh, Jan. 7, 1787- 
To teU the truth among friends, I feel a mis~ 
erable blank in my heart, with the want of her, 
and I don't think I shall ever meet with so de- 
licious an armful again. She has her faults; 
and so have you and I; and so has every 
body : 

Their tricks and craft hae put me daft ; 

They've ta'en me in and a' that ; 
But clear your decks, and here's the sex, 
I like the jads for a' that. 
For a 1 that and a' that, 
And twice as muckle's sJ that. 



I have met with a very pretty girl, a Lothian 
farmer's daughter, whom I have almost per- 
suaded to accompany me to the west coun- 
try, should I ever return to settle there. By 
the bye, a Lothian farmer is about an Ayrshire 
squire of the lower kind ; and I had a most de- 
licious ride from Leith to her house yesternight, 
in a hackney-coach, with her brother and two 
sisters, and brother's wife. We had dined al- 
together at a common friend's house in Leith, 
and danced, drank, and sang till late enough. 
The night was dark, the claret had been good, 
and I thirsty. ***** 

R.B. 



XLI. 
2To %o\j\\ aSallantjme, Tktq. 



(This letter contains the first intimation that the poet de$i)»o. 7< 
resume the labours of the farmer. The old saw of '* Willie Ga*.r*s 
Skate," he picked up from his mother, who had a vast collection cf 
such sayings. | 



Edinburgh, Jan. 14, 17^7* 
My honoured Friend. 
It gives me a secret comfort to observe in 
myself that I am not yet so far gone as Willie 
Gaw's Skftte, " past redemption;" for I have 



OF ROBERT BKRNS. 



251 



still this favourable symptom of grace, that when 
my conscience, as in the case of this letter, tells 
me I am leaving something undone that I ought 
to do, it teases me eternally till I do it. 

I am still " dark as was Chaos" 1 in respect to 
futurity. My generous friend, Mr. Patrick 
Miller, has been talking with me about a lease 
of some farm or other in an estate called Dal- 
swinton, which he has lately bought, near Dum- 
fries. Some life-rented embittering recollec- 
tions whisper me that I will be happier any 
where than in my old neighbourhood, but Mr. 
Miller is no judge of land; and though I dare 
say he means to favour me, yet he may give me, 
in his opinion, an advantageous bargain that 
may ruin me. I am to take a tour by Dumfries 
as I return, and have promised to meet Mr. 
Miller on his lands some time in May. 

I went to a mason-lodge yesternight, where 
the most Worshipful Grand Master Charters, 
and all the Grand Lodge of Scotland visited. 
The meeting was numerous and elegant ; all the 
different lodges about town were present, in all 
their pomp. The Grand Master, who presided 
with great solemnity and honour to himself as 
a gentleman and mason, among other general 
toasts, gave " Caledonia, and Caledonia's Bard, 
Brother Burns," which rung through the whole 
assembly with multiplied honours and repeated 
acclamations. As I had no idea such a thing 
would happen, I was downright thunderstruck, 
and trembling in every nerve, made the best re- 
turn in my power. Just as I had finished, some 
of the grand officers said, so loud that I could 
hear, with a most comforting accent, " Very 
well indeed !" which set me something to rights 
again. 

I have to-day corrected my 152d page. My 
best good wishes to Mr. Aiken. 
I am ever, 
Dear Sir, 
Your much indebted humble Servant, 

R.B. 



XLIL 

fto ^ofm ifalfcmtgne. 



[I nave not nesitated to insert all letters which show what Burns 
was musing on as a poet, or planning as a man.] 



January — , 1787. 

W hile here I sit, sad and solitary by the 

side of a fire in a little country inn, and drying 

my wet clothes, in pops a poor fellow of sodger, 

and tells me he is going to Ayr. By heavens ! 



say I to myself, with a tide of good spirits which 
the magic of that sound, Auld Toon o' Ayr, con- 
jured up, I will send my last song to Mr. Bal- 
lantyne. Here it is — 

Ye flowery banks o' bonnie Doon, 
How can ye blume sae fair ; 

How can ye chant, ye little birds, 
And I sae fu' o' care ! * 



* See Blair't Crav< 



ts a favourite quotation with Burns 



XLIII. 
Zo J&r?s. Dunlop. 



[The friendship of Mrs.Dumop purified, while it strengthento tAc 
national prejudices of Burns* J 



Edinburgh, 15th January, 1787- 
Madam, 

Yours of the 9th current, which I am thi« 
moment honoured with, is a deep reproach to 
me for ungrateful neglect. I will tell you 
the real truth, for I am miserably awkward at a 
fib — I wished to have written to Dr. Moore 
before I wrote to vou; but though every 
day since I received yours of December 30th, the 
idea, the wish to write to him has constantly 
pressed on my thoughts, yet I could not for my 
soul set about it. I know his fame and cha- 
racter, and I am one of " the sons of little men." 
To write him a mere matter-of-fact affair, like 
a merchant's order, would be disgracing the lit- 
tle character I have ; and to write the author of 
" The View of Society and Manners" a letter of 
sentiment — I declare every artery runs cold at 
the thought. I shall try, however, to write to 
him to-morrow or next day. His kind interpo- 
sition in my behalf I have already experienced, 
as a gentleman waited on me the other day, on 
the part of Lord Eglintoun, with ten guineas, by 
way of subscription for two copies of my next 
edition. 

The word you object to in the mention I have 
made of my glorious countryman and your im- 
mortal ancestor, is indeed borrowed from Thom- 
son ; but it does not strike me as an improper 
epithet. I distrusted my own judgment on your 
finding fault with it, and applied for the opinion 
of some of the literati here, who honour me 
with their critical strictures, and they all allow 
it to be proper. The song you ask I cannot re- 
collect and I have not a copy of it. I have not 
composed any thing on the great Wallace, ex- 
cept what you have seen in print ; and the in- 
closed, which I will print in this edition. You 
will see I have mentioned some others of the 
name. When I composed my " Vision" lon<r 



1 Song C XX XI. 



•2-3-2 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



ago, I had attempted a description of Koyle, of 
which the additional stanzas are a part, as it 
originally stood. My heart glows with a wish 
to be able to do justice to the merits of the " Sa- 
viour of his Country," which sooner or later I 
shall at least attempt. 

You are afraid I shall grow intoxicated with 
my prosperity as a poet ; alas ! Madam, I know 
myself and the world too well. I do not mean 
any airs of affected modesty; I am willing to be- 
lieve that my abilities deserve some notice ; but 
in a most enlightened, informed age and nation, 
when poetry is and has been the study of men 
of the first natural genius, aided with all the 
powers of polite learning, polite books, and po- 
lite company — to be dragged forth to the full 
glare of learned and polite observation, with all 
my imperfections of awkward rusticity and 
crude unpolished ideas on my head — I assure 
you, Madam, I do not dissemble when I tell you 
I tremble for the consequences. The novelty of 
a poet in my obscure situation, without any of 
those advantages which are reckoned necessary 
for that character, at least at this time of day, 
has raised a partial tide of public notice which 
lias borne me to a height, where I am abso- 
lutely, feelingly certain, my abilities are inade- 
quate to support me ; and too surely do I see 
that time when the same tide will leave me, and 
recede, perhaps, as far below the mark of truth. 
I do not say this in the ridiculous affectation of 
self-abasement and modesty. I have studied 
myself, and know what ground I occupy ; and, 
however a friend or the world may differ from 
me in that particular, I stand for my own opin- 
ion, in silent resolve, with all the tenaciousness 
of property. I mention this to you once for all 
to disburthen my mind, and I do not wish to 
hear or say more about it. — But, 

<l When proud fortune's ebbing tide recedes," 

you will bear me witness, that when my bubble 
of fame was at the highest, I stood unintoxicated 
with the inebriating cup in my hand, looking 
forward with rueful resolve to the hastening 
time, when the blow of Calumny should dash it 
to the ground, with all the eagerness of venge- 
ful triumph. 

Your patronizing me and interesting your- 
self in my fame and character as a poet, I re- 
joice in; it exalts me in my own idea; and 
vhether you can or cannot aid me in my sub- 
scription is a trifle. Has a paltry subsc/ip- 
tion-bill any charms to the heart of a bard, com- 
pared with the patronage of the descendant of 
tiifi immortal Wallace ? 

KB. 



XLIV, 

®o Mx. Jftoote. 

[Dr. Moore, the accomplished author of Zeluco and fath er of Sii 
John Moore, interested himself in the fame and fortune of Burns, »s 
soon as the publication of his Poems made his name known to the 
world. J 



Sir, 



Edinburgh, Jan. 1787 



Mrs. Dunlop has been so kind as to send me 
extracts of letters she has had from you, where 
you do the rustic bard the honour of noticing 
him and his works. Those who have felt the 
anxieties and solicitudes of authorship, can only 
know what pleasure it gives to be noticed in 
such a manner, by judges of the first character. 
Your criticisms, Sir, I receive with reverence : 
only I am sorry they mostly came too late : a 
peccant passage or two that I would certainly 
have altered, were gone to the press. 

The hope to be admired for ages, is, in by far 
the greater part of those even who are authors 
of repute, an unsubstantial dream. For my 
part, my first ambition was, and still my strong- 
est wish is, to please my compeers, the rustic in- 
mates of the hamlet, while ever-changing lan- 
guage and manners shall allow me to be relished 
and understood. I am very willing to admit 
that I have some poetical abilities ; and as few, 
if any, writers, either moral or poetical, are in- 
timately acquainted with the classes of mankind 
among whom I have chiefly mingled, I may 
have seen men and manners in a different phasis 
from what is common, which may assist origi- 
nality of thought. Still I know very well the 
novelty of my character has by far the greatest 
share in the learned and polite notice I have 
lately had ; and in a language where Pope and 
Churchill have raised the laugh, and Shenstone 
and Gray drawn the tear; where Thomson 
and Beattie have painted the landscape, and 
Lyttelton and Collins described the heart, I 
am not vain enough to hope for distinguished 
poetic fame. 

R.B. 



XLV. 

NEW MIL T, S, NEAR KILMARNOCK. 

[It has beeu said, in the Life of Burns, that for some time after he 
went to Edinburgh, he rV.u not visit Dr. Blacklock, whose high opi- 
nion of his genius induced him to try his fortune in that city : it will 
be seen by this letter that he had neglected also, for a time, at least, 
to write to Dr. Laurie, who introduced him to the Doctor.] 

Edinburgh, Feb. 5th, 1787. 

Reverend and dear Sir, 

When I look at the date of your kind letter, 

my heart reproaches me severely with ingrati* 

tude in neglecting so long to answer it. I will 

not trouble you with any account by way ot 



OF ROBERT BURNS 



2,53 



apology, of my hurried life and distracted atten- 
tion : do me the justice to believe that my delay 
by no means proceeded from want of respect. I 
feel, and ever shall feel for you the mingled sen- 
timents of esteem for a friend and reverence for 
a father. 

I thank you Sir, with all my soul for your 
friendly hints, though I do not need them so 
much as my friends are apt to imagine. You are 
dazzled with newspaper accounts and distant re- 
ports ; but, in reality, I have no great tempta- 
tion to be intoxicated with the cup of prosperity. 
Novelty may attract the attention of mankind 
awhile ; to it I owe my present e'clat ; but I see 
the time not far distant when the popular tide 
which has borne me to a height of which I am, 
perhaps, unworthy, shall recede with silent ce- 
lerity, and leave me a barren waste of sand, to 
descend at my leisure to my former station. I 
do not say this in the affectation of modesty ; I 
see the consequence is unavoidable, and am pre- 
pared for it. I had been at a good deal of pains to 
form a just, impartial estimate of my intellectual 
powers before I came here ; I have not added, 
since I came to Edinburgh, anything to the ac- 
count ; and I trust I shall take every atom of it 
back to my shades, the coverts of my unnoticed, 
early years. 

In Dr. Blacklock, whom I see very often, I 
have found what I would have expected in our 
friend, a clear head and an excellent heart. 

By far the most agreeable hours I spend in 
Edinburgh must be placed to the account of 
Miss Laurie and her piano-forte. I cannot help 
repeating to you and Mrs. Laurie a compliment 
that Mr. Mackenzie, the celebrated " Man of 
Feeling," paid to Miss Laurie, the other night, 
at the concert. I had come in at the interlude, 
and sat down by him till I saw Miss Laurie in a 
seat not very distant, and went up to pay my 
respects to her. On my return to Mr. Macken- 
zie he asked me who she was ; I told him 'twas 
the daughter of a reverend friend of mine in the 
west country. He returned, there was some- 
thing very striking, to his idea, in her appear- 
ance. On my desiring to know what it was, he 
was pleased to say, " She has a great deal of the 
elegance of a well-bred lady about her, with all 
the sweet simplicity of a country girl." 

My compliments to all the happy inmates of 
8t. Margaret's. R. B. 



XLVI. 

[In the answer to this letter Dr. Moore says that the poet was 
» great favourite in his famHy, and that his youngest son, at Win- 
chester school, had translated part of " Halloween" into Latin verse, 
for the benefit of his comrades-l 

Edinburgh, Ibth February, 1787- 
Sib, 
Part>on my soeming neglect in delaying so 
long to acknowledge the honour you have done 



me, in your kind notice of me, January 23rd. 
Not many months ago I knew no other employ- 
ment than following the plough, nor could boast 
any thing higher than a distant acquaintance 
with a country clergyman. Mere greatness never 
embarrasses me ; I have nothing to ask from the 
great, and I do not fear their judgment : but 
genius, polished by learning, and at its proper 
point of elevation in the eye of the world, this of 
late I frequently meet with, and tremble at its 
approach. I scorn the affectation of seeming 
modesty to cover self-conceit. That I have some 
merit I do not deny ; but I see with frequent 
wringings of heart, that the novelty of my cha- 
racter, and the honest national prejudice of my 
countrymen, have borne me to a height alto- 
gether untenable to my abilities. 

For the honour Miss Williams has done me, 
please, Sir, return her in my name my most 
grateful thanks. I have more than once thought 
of paying her in kind, but have hitherto quitted 
the idea in hopeless despondency. I had never 
before heard of her ; but the other day I got her 
poems, which for several reasons, some belong- 
ing to the head, and others the offspring of the 
heart, give me a great deal of pleasure. I have 
little pretensions to critic lore ; there are, I think, 
two characteristic features in her poetry — the 
unfettered wild flight of native genius, and the 
querulous, sombre tenderness of " time-settled 
sorrow." 

I only know what pleases me, often without 
being able to tell why 

R. B. 



XL VII 

Zo $o\j\\ ^allantgne, lEgiq. 



[The picture from which Beugo engraved the portrait a.ludeo. to 
in thisletter, was painted by thenow venerable Alexander Nasmyth — 
the eldest of living British artists:— it is, with the exception of a pro- 
file by Miers, the mly portrait for which we are quite sure that me 
poet sat.] 



Edinburgh, Feb. 24, 1787 

My honoured Friend, 
I will soon be with you now, in guid black 
prent ; — in a week or ten days at farthest. I 
am obliged, against my own wish, to print sub- 
scribers' names; so if any of my Ayr friends 
have subscription bills, they must be sent into 
Creech directly. I am getting my phiz done by 
an eminent engraver, and if it can be ready in 
time, I will appear in my book, looking like all 
other fools to my title-page. 

R. B. 



254 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



XLVIIl 

2To t|)c <£arl of Glencatm. 

f TI.e Earl of Glencaim seems to have refused, from motives of de- 
licacy, the request of the poet : the verses, long lost, were at last 
loiind.and are now, through the kindnessof my friend, Major James 
Glencairn Burns, printed with the rest of his eminent tattler's works.] 

Edinburgh, 1787- 
My Lord, 

I wanted to purchase a profile of your lord- 
ship, which I was told was to be got in town ; 
but I am truly sorry to see that a blundering 
painter has spoiled a " human face divine." The 
enclosed stanzas I intended to have written be- 
low a picture or profile of your lordship, could 
I have been so happy as to procure one with any 
thing of a likeness. 

As I will soon return to my shades, I wanted 
to have something like a material object for my 
gratitude ; I wanted to have it in my power to 
say to a friend, there is my noble patron, my 
generous benefactor. Allow me, my lord, to 
publish these verses. I conjure your lordship, 
by the honest throe of gratitude, by the generous 
wish of benevolence, by all the powers and feel- 
ings which compose the magnanimous mind, do 
not deny me this petition. I owe much to your 
lordship : and what has not in some other in- 
stances always been the case with me, the weight 
T f the obligation is a pleasing load. I trust I 
have a heart as independent as your lordship's, 
than which I can say nothing more ; and I would 
not be beholden to favours that would crucify 
my feelings. Your dignified character in life, 
and manner of supporting that character, are 
flattering to my pride ; and I would be jealous 
of the purity of my grateful attachment, where I 
was under the patronage of one of the much fa- 
voured sons of fortune. 

Almost every poet has celebrated his patrons, 
particularly when they were names dear to fame, 
and illustrious in their country ; allow me, then, 
my lord, if you think the verses have intrinsic 
merit, to tell the world how much I have the 
honour to be, 

Your lordship's highly indebted, 

And ever grateful humble servant, 
R. B. 



XLIX 
GTo tfje <£arl of 23uel)an. 



[The Eail of Buchan, a man of talent, but more than tolerably 
rain, advised Burns to visit the battle-fields and scenes celebrated in 
tong on the Scottish border, with the hope, perhaps, that he would 
drop a few of his happy verses in Drybrugh Abbey, the residence of his 
lordship. J 

My Lord, 
The honour your lordship has done me, by 
your notice and advice in yours of the 1st instant, 
1 fehall ever gratefully remember : — 



'• Praise from thy lips 'tis mine with joy to boast, 
They best can give it who deserve it roost." » 



Your lordship touches the darling chord of my 
heart, when you advise me to fire my muse at 
Scottish story and Scotch scenes. I wish for 
nothing more than to make a leisurely pilgrim- 
age through my native country ; to sit and muse 
on those once hard-contended fields, where Cale- 
donia, rejoicing, saw her bloody lion borne 
through broken ranks to victory and fame ; and, 
catching the inspiration, to pour the deathless 
names in song. But, my lord, in the midst of 
these enthusiastic reveries, a long-visaged, dry, 
moral-looking phantom strides across my ima- 
gination, and pronounces these emphatic 
words : — 

" I, Wisdom, dwell with Prudence. Friend, 
I do not come to open the ill-closed wounds of 
your follies and misfortunes, merely to give you 
pain : I wish through these wounds to imprint a 
lasting lesson on your heart. I will not mention 
how many of my salutary advices you have de- 
spised : I have given you line upon line and pre- 
cept upon precept ; and while I was chalking 
out to you the straight way to wealth and cha- 
racter, with audacious effrontery you have 
zigzagged across the path, contemning me to my 
face : you know the consequences. It is not 
yet three months since home was so hot for you 
that you were on the wing for the western shore 
of the Atlantic, not to make a fortune, but to 
hide your misfortune. 

" Now that your dear-loved Scotia puts it in 
your power to return to the situation of your 
forefathers, will you follow these will-o'-wisp 
meteors of fancy and whim, till they bring you 
once more to the brink of ruin ? I grant that 
the utmost ground you can occupy is but half a 
step from the veriest poverty ; but still it is half 
a step from it. If all that I can urge be ineffec- 
tual, let her who seldom calls to you in vain, let 
the call of pride prevail with you. You know 
how you feel at the iron gripe of ruthless op- 
pression : you know how you bear the galling 
sneer of contumelious greatness. I hold you 
out the conveniences, the comforts of life, in- 
dependence, and character, on the one hand ; I 
tender you civility, dependence, and wretched- 
ness, on the other. I will not insult your un- 
derstanding by bidding you make a choice." 

This, my lord, is unanswerable. I must re- 
turn to my humble station, and woo my rustic 
muse in my wonted way at the plough-tail. 
Still, my lord, while the drops of life warm my 
heart, gratitude to that dear-loved country in 
which I boast my birth, and gratitude to those 
her distinguished sons, who have honoured me 
so much with their patronage and approbation, 
shall, while stealing through my humble shades, 
ever distend my bosom, and at times, as now, 
draw forth the swelling tear. 

R.K 



Imitated from Pope's EloiiK to A.bc,kj«L 






OF ROBERT BURNS. 



255 



L 



' lame* Canditan, a student of medicine, was well acquainted with 
the poetry of Lowe, author of that sublime lyric, " Mary's Dream," 
and ftt the request of Bums sent Lowe's classic song of " Pompcy's 
Ghost," to the Musical Museum.] 



Edinburgh, March 21, 1787. 
My ever dear old Acquaintance, 

I was equally surprised and pleased at your 
letter, though I dare say you will think by my 
delaying so long to write to you that I am so 
drowned in the intoxication of good fortune as 
to be indifferent to old, and once dear connexions. 
The truth is, I was determined to write a good 
letter, full of argument, amplification, erudition, 
and, as Bayes says, all that. I thought of it, and 
thought of it, and, by my soul, I could not ; and, 
lest you should mistake the cause of my silence, 
I just sit down to tell you so. Don't give your- 
self credit, though, that the strength of your 
logic scares me : the truth is, I never mean to 
meet you on that ground at all. You have 
shown me one thing which was to be demon- 
strated : that strong pride of reasoning, with a 
little affectation of singularity, may mislead the 
best of hearts. I likewise, since you and I were 
first acquainted, in the pride of despising old 
women's stories, ventured in " the daring path 
Spinosa trod ;" but experience of the weakness, 
not the strength of human powers, made me 
glad to grasp at revealed religion. 

I am still, in the Apostle Paul's phrase, 
"The old man with his deeds," as when we 
were sporting about the " Lady Thorn." I shall 
be four weeks here yet at least ; and so I shall 
expect to hear from you ; welcome sense, wel- 
come nonsense. 

I am, with -he warmest sincerity, 

R. B. 



JjI. 



Eo 



[The name of the friend to whom this letter was addressed is still 
unknown, though known to Dr. Currie. The Esculaplan Club of 
Edinburgh have, since the death of Burns, added some iron-work, 
with an inscription in honour of the Ayrshire poet, to the original 
Head-stone. The cost to the poet was £5. 10s.] 

Edinburgh, March, 1787. 
My dear Sir, 
You may think, and too justly, that I am a 
selfish, ungrateful fellow, having received so 
many repeated instances of kindness from you, 
and yet never putting pen to paper to say thank 
you ; but if you knew what a devil of a life my 
conscience has led me on that account, your 
good heart would think yourself too much 
avenged. By the bye, there is nothing in the 
wliole frame of man which seems to be so unac- 



countable as that tiling called conscience. Had 
the troublesome yelping cur powers efficient to 
prevent a mischief, he might be of use ; but at 
the beginning of the business, his feeble efforts 
are to the workings of passion as the infant 
frosts of an autumnal morning to the unclouded 
fervour of the rising sun : and no sooner are the 
tumultuous doings of the wicked deed over, than, 
amidst the bitter native consequences of folly, 
in the very vortex of our horrors, up starts con- 
science, and harrows us with the feelings of the 
damned. 

I have enclosed you, by way of expiation, some 
verse and prose, that, if they merit a place in 
your truly entertaining miscellany, you are wel- 
come to. The prose extract is literally as Mr. 
Sprott sent it me. 

The inscription on the stone is as follows : — 

"HERE LIES ROBERT FERGUSSON, POET. 

Born, September 5th, 1751— Died, ICth October, 1774. 

"No sculpturM marble here, nor pompous lay, 
' No storied urn nor animated bust;' 
This simple stone directs pale Scotia's way 
To pour her sorrows o'er her poet's dust." 



On the other side of the stone is as follows : 

" By special grant of the managers to Robert Burns, who erected 
this stone, this burial-place is to remain for ever sacred to the me- 
mory of Robert Fergusson." 



Session-house, within the Kirk of Canongate, the 
twenty-second day of February, one thousand 
seven hundred eighty-seven years. 

Sederunt of the Managers of the Kirk and Kirk- 
Yard funds of Canongate. 

Which day, the treasurer to the said funds 
produced a letter from Mr. Robert Burns, of 
date the 6th current, which was read and ap- 
pointed to be engrossed in their sederunt book, 
and of which letter the tenor follows : — 

"To the honourable baillies of Canongate, 
Edinburgh. — Gentlemen, I am sorry to be told 
that the remains of Robert Fergusson, the so 
justly celebrated poet, a man whose talents for 
ages to come will do honour to our Caledonian 
name, lie in your church-yard among the ignoble 
dead, unnoticed and unknown. 

"Some memorial to direct the steps of the 
lovers of Scottish song, when they wish to shed 
a tear over the ' narrow house' of the bard who 
is no more, is surely a tribute due to Fergusson' s 
memory : a tribute I wish to have the honour of 
paying. 

" I petition you then, gentlemen, to permit me 
to lay a simple stone over his revered ashes, to 
remain an unalienable property to his deathless 
fame. I have the honour to be, gentlemen, your 
very humble servant (sic subscribiturj, 

Robert Burns." 

Thereafter the said managers, in consideration 
of the laudable and disinterested motion of Mr. 
Burns, and the propriety of his request, did, and 



250 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



hereby do, unanimously, grant power and liberty 
to the said Robert Burns to erect a headstone at 
the grave of the said Robert Fergusson, and 
to keep up and preserve the same to his memory 
in all time coming. Extracted forth of the re- 
coras of the managers, by 

William Sprott, Clerk. 



LII. 
Zo i$tv$. Bunlop. 



[The poet ailudes in this letter to the profits of the Edinburgh 
sdition of his Poems: the exact sum is nowhere stated, but it could 
not have been less than seven hundred pounds.[ 



Edinburgh, March 22nd, 1787- 
Madam, 

I read your letter with watery eyes. A little, 
very little while ago, I had scarce a friend but 
the stubborn pride of my own bosom : now I 
am distinguished, patronised, befriended by 
you. Your friendly advices, I will not give them 
the cold name of criticisms, I receive with re- 
verence. I have made some small alterations 
in what I before had printed. I have the advice 
of some very judicious friends among the literati 
here, but -with them I sometimes find it neces- 
sary to claim the privilege of thinking for my- 
self. The noble Earl of Glencairn, to whom I 
owe more than to any man, does me the honour 
of giving me his strictures : his hints, with re- 
spect to impropriety or indelicacy, I follow im- 
plicitly. 

You kindly interest yourself in my future 
views and prospects ; there I can give you no 
light. It is all 

" Dark as was Chaos ere the iufant sun 
Was roll'd together, or had tried his beams 
Athwart the gloom profound." x 

The appellation of a Scottish bard, is hy far 
my highest pride ; to continue to deserve it is 
my most exalted ambition. Scottish scenes and 
Scottish story are the themes I could wish to 
sing. I have no dearer aim than to have it in 
my power, unplagued with the routine of busi- 
ness, for which heaven knows I am unfit enough, 
to make leisurely pilgrimages through Caledonia ; 
to sit on the fields of her battles ; to wander on 
the romantic banks of her rivers ; and to muse 
by the stately towers or venerable ruins, once 
the honoured abodes of her heroes. 

But these are all Utopian thoughts: I have 
dallied long enough with life ; 'tis time to be in 
earnest. I have a fond, an aged mother to care 
for : and some other bosom ties perhaps equally 
tender. Where the individual only suffers by 
the consequences of his own thoughtlessness, in- 
dolence, oi folly, he may be excusable ; nay, 



shining abilities, and some of the nobler virtu es, 
may half sanctify a heedless character; but 
where God and nature have entrusted the wel- 
fare of others to his care ; where the trust is 
sacred, and the ties are dear, that man must be 
far gone in selfishness, or strangely lost to reflec- 
tion, whom these connexions will not rouse to 
exertion. 

I guess that I shall clear between two and 
three hundred pounds by my authorship ; with 
that sum I intend, so far as I may be said to 
have any intention, to return to my old acquaint- 
ance, the plough, and, if I can meet with a lease 
by which I can live, to commence farmer. I do 
not intend to give up poetry ; being bred to la- 
bour, secures me independence, and the muses 
are my chief, sometimes have been my only en- 
joyment. If my practice second my resolution, 
I shall have principally at heart the serious bu- 
siness of life ; but while following my plough, or 
building up my shocks, I shall cast a leisure glance 
to that dear, that only feature of my character, 
which gave me the notice of my country, and the 
patronage of a Wallace. 

Thus, honoured Madam, I have given you tho 
bard, his situation, and his views, native as they 
are in his own bosom. 

R. B. 



LIII. 
&o i&rg. Hunlop. 



[This seems to be a letter acknowledging the payment of Mn 
Dunlop's subscription for his poems.] 



Edinburgh, \5th April, 1787* 
Madam, 
There is an affectation of gratitude which I 
dislike. The periods of Johnson and the pause 
of Sterne, may hide a selfish heart. For my part, 
Madam, I trust I have too much pride for ser- 
vility, and too little prudence for selfishness. I 
have this moment broken open your letter, but 

" Rude am I in speecfi, 
And therefore little can I grace my g&iuu 
In speaking for myself—" i 

so I shall not trouble you with any fine speeches 
and hunted figures. I shall just lay my hand 
on my heart and say, I hope I shall ever have 
the truest, the warmest sense of your goodness. 

I come abroad in print, for certain on Wed- 
nesday. Your orders I shall punctually attend 
to ; only, by the way, I must tell you that I was 
paid before for Dr. Moore's and Miss Williams' 
copies, through the medium of Commissioner 
Cochrane in this place, but that we can settle 
when I have the honour of waiting on you. 

Dr. Smith 2 was just gone to London the 
morning before I received your letter to him. 

R. B. 






OV ROBERT BURNS. 



257 



LIV 
©o l&r. &tbualb, 

BOOKSELLER IN EDINBURGH. 



fTnis letter first appeared in that very valuable work, Nicholl's 
illu»tratlons of Literature. 



Lawn Market. 



Sir, 



So little am I acquainted with the words and 
manners of the more public and polished walks 
of life, that I often feel myself much embar- 
rassed how to express the feelings of my heart, 
jiarticularly gratitude : — 

•* Rude am I in my speech, 
And little therefore shall 1 grace my cause 
In speaking for myself—" 

The warmth with which you have befriended 
an obscure man and a young author in the last 
three magazines — I can only say, Sir, I feel the 
weight of the obligation, I wish I could ex- 
press my sense of it. In the meantime accept 
of the conscious acknowledgment from, 
Sir, 
Your obliged servant, 

B.B. 



LV 
2To Dr. ilftoore. 



[The book to which the poet alludes, was the well-known View 
of Society bv Dr. Moore, a work of spirit and observation.] 



Edinburgh, 23rd April, 1787- 
I received the books, and sent the one you 
mentioned to Mrs. Dunlop. I am ill skilled in 
beating the coverts of imagination for meta- 
phors of gratitude. I thank you, Sir, for the 
honour you have done me ; and to my latest 
hour will warmly remember it. To be highly 
pleased with your book is what I have in com- 
mon with the world ; but to regard these vo- 
lumes as a mark of the author's friendly esteem, 
is a still more supreme gratification. 

I leave Edinburgh in the course of ten days 
oi a fortnight, and after a few pilgrimages over 
Some of the classic ground of Caledonia, Cow- 
den Knowes, Banks of Yarrow, Tweed, &c, 
I shall return to my rural shades, in all likeli- 
hood never more to quit them. I have formed 
many intimacies and friendships here, but I am 
afraid they are all of too tender a construction 
to bear carriage a hundred and fifty miles. To 
the rich, the great, the fashionable, the polite, I 
have no equivalent to offer ; and I am afraid my 
meteor appearance will by no means entitle me 
to a settled correspondence with any of you, 
who are the permanent lights of genius and lite- 
rature. 



My most respectful compliments to Miss 
Williams. If once this tangent flight of mine 
were over, and I were returned to my wonted 
leisurely motion in my old circle, I may pro- 
bably endeavour to return her poetic compli- 
ment in kind. 

R.B. 



LVI. 
^o £&%$. Dunlop. 



[Tliia letter was in answer to one of criticism and remonstrance, 
from Mrs. Dunlop, respecting " The Dream," which she had beg- 
ged the poet to omit, lest it should uarm his foitunes with tlw 
world.] 



Edinburgh, 30th April, 1787. 

Your criticisms, Madam, I under- 
stand very well, and could have wished to have 
pleased you better. You are right in your 
guess that I am not very amenable to counsel. 
Poets, much my superiors, have so flattered 
those who possessed the adventitious qualities 
of wealth and power, that I am determined to 
flatter no created being, either in prose or 
verse. 

I set as little by princes, lords, clergy, critics, 
&c. as all these respective gentry do by my bard- 
ship. I know what I may expect from the 
world, by and by — illiberal abuse, and perhaps 
contemptuous neglect. 

I am happy, Madam, that some of my own 
favourite pieces are distinguished by your par- 
ticular approbation. For my " Dream," which 
has unfortunately incurred your loyal displea- 
sure, I hope in four weeks, or less, to have the 
honour of appearing, at Dunlop, in its defence 
in person. 

R.B. 



LVTI. 
%o the &*b. Wt. %}\i$> Blafr- 



[The answer of Dr. Blair to this letter contains the following 
passage : " Your situation, as you say, was indeed very singular : and 
in being brought out all at once from the shades of deepest privacy 
to so great a share of public notice and observation, you had to 
stand a severe trial. 1 am happy you nave stood it so well, and as 
far as I have known, or heard, though in the midst of many tempta- 
tions, without reproach to your character or behavioui "] 



Lawn-market, Edinburgh, 3rd May, 1787- 

Reverend and much-respected Sib, 

I leave Edinburgh to-morrow morning, but 

could not go without troubling you with half a 

line, sincerely to thank you for the kindness, 

patronage, and friendship you have shown me. 

3 u 



t>58 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



I often felt the embarrassment of my singular 
situation ; drawn forth from the veriest shades 
of life to the glare of remark ; and honoured by 
the notice of those illustrious names of my coun- 
try whose works, while they are applauded to 
the end of time, will ever instruct and mend the 
heart. However the meteor-like novelty of my 
appearance in the world might attract notice, and 
honour me with the acquaintance of the per- 
manent lights of genius and literature, those 
who are truly benefactors of the immortal na- 
ture of man, I knew very well that my utmost 
merit was far unequal to the task of preserving 
that character when once the novelty was over; 
I have made up my mind that abuse, or almost 
even neglect, will not surprise me in iny 
quarters. 

I have sent you a proof impression of Beugo's 
work l for me, done on Indian paper, as a tri- 
fling but sincere testimony with what heart- 
warm gratitude I am, &c. 

R.B. 



LVIII. 

%n X\)t ISarl of ffilnuatm. 

[The poet addressed the following letter to the Earl of Glencairn, 
when he commenced his journey to the Border. It was first printed 
in the third edition of Lockhart's Life of Burns ; an eloquent and 
manly work. J 

My Lord, 
I go away to-morrow morning early, and al- 
low me to vent the fulness of my heart, in thank- 
ing your lordship for all that patronage, that 
benevolence and that friendship with which you 
have honoured me. With brimful eyes, I pray 
that you may find in that great Being, whose im- 
age you so nobly bear, that friend which I have 
found in you. My gratitude is not selfish design — 
that I disdain — it is not dodging after the heels 
of greatness — that is an offering you disdain. 
It is a feeling of the same kind with my devo- 
tion. 

R. B. 



LIX. 
2To |&r. MHtam Bunfcar. 



'William Du nhar, Colonel of the Crochallan Fcncibles. Thename 
has a maitial sound, but the corps which he commanded was a 
club of wits, whose courage was exercised on " pai tricks, teals, moor- 
powts, and plovers."] 

Lawn-market, Monday morning. 
Dear Sir, 
In justice to Spenser, I must acknowledge 
that there is scarcely a poet in the language 
could have been a more agreeable present to 

• The portrait of the noer, after Naauirth. 



me ; and in justice to you, allow me to say, Six 
that I have not met with a man in Edinburgh to 
whom I would so willingly have been indebted 
for the gift. The tattered rhymes I herewith 
present you, and the handsome volumes of 
Spenser for which I am so much indebted to your 
goodness, may perhaps be not in proportion to 
one another ; but be that as it may, my gift 5 
though far less valuable, is as sincere a mark of 
esteem as yours. 

The time is approaching when I shall return 
to my shades ; and I am afraid my numerous 
Edinburgh friendships are of so tender a con- 
struction, that they will not bear carriage with 
me. Yours is one of the few that I could wish 
of a more robust constitution. It is indeed 
very probable that when I leave this city, we 
part never more to meet in this sublunary 
sphere ; but I have a strong fancy that in some 
future eccentric planet, the comet of happier 
systems, than any with which astronomy is yet 
acquainted, you and I, among the harum scarum 
sons of imagination and whim, with a hearty 
shake of a hand, a metaphor and a laugh, shall 
recognise old acquaintance : 

" Where wit may sparkle ail its lays, 
Uncurst with caution's fears: 
That pleasure, basking in the blaze, 
Rejoice for endless years." 

I have the honour to be, with the warmest 
sincerity, dear Sir, &c. 

R.B. 



LX. 

^°o ^nmn SJofjngon. 



| James Johnson was an engraver in Edinburgh, anu proprietor 
of the Musical Museum; a truly national work, for which Burns 
wrote or amended many songs.] 



Lawn-market, Friday noon, 3 May, 17#7. 
Dear Sir, 

I have sent you a song never before 
known, for your collection ; the air byM'Gibbon, 
but I know not the author of the words, as I got 
it from Dr. Blacklock. 

Farewell, my dear Sir ! I wished to have seen 
you, but I have been dreadfully throng, as I 
march to-morrow. Had my acquaintance with 
you been a little older, I would have asked the 
favour of your correspondence, as I have met 
with few people whose company and conversa- 
tion gives me so much pleasure, because I' have 
met with few whose sentiments are so conge- 
nial to my own. 

When Dunbar and you meet, tell him that 
I left Edinburgh with the idea of him hanging 
somewhere about my heart. 

Keep the original of the song till wo meet 
again, whenever that may be. 

R.R 






OF ROBERT BURNS. 



259 



LXI. 

Zo Milium ©reccf), IE$q. 

IDINBUROH, 



[This characteristic letter was written during the poet's bonier 
tour: he narrowly escaped a soaking with whiskey, as well as with 
water; for, according to the Kttrick Shepherd, "a couple of Yarrow 
lad», lovers of poesie and punch, awaited his coming to Selkirk, 
hut would not believe that the parson-looking, black-aviscd man, 
who rode up to the inn more like a drouket craw than a poet, 
could be Burns, and so went disappointed a\vay."j 



Selkirk, IZlh May, 1787. 
My honoured Friend, 
The enclosed I have just wrote, nearly ex- 
tempore, in a solitary inn in Selkirk, after a mis- 
erable wet day's riding I have been over most 
of East Lothian, Berwick, Roxburgh, and Sel- 
kirk-shires; and next week I begin a tour 
through the north of England. Yesterday I 
dined with Lady Harriet, sister to my noble 
patron, 1 Quern Deus conservet ! I would write 
till I would tire you as much with dull prose, as 
I dare say by this time you are with wretched 
verse, but I am jaded to death ; so, with a 
grateful farewell, 

I have the honour to be, 

Good Sir, yours sincerely, 

R.B. 

Auld chuckie Reekie's sair distrest, 
Down drops her ance weel burnish'd crest, 
Nae joy her bonnie buskit nest 

Can yield ava ; 
Her darling bird that she lo'es best, 

Willie's awa 2 



LXII. 

BOOKSELLER, PAISLEY. 



rTliis letter has a business air about it : the name of Patison is no- 
vhare else to be found in the poet's correspondencc.J 



Berry-well, near Dunse, May Ylth, 1787- 
Dear Sir, 
I am sorry I was out of Edinburgh, making a 
slight pilgrimage to the classic scenes of this 
country, when I was favoured with yours of the 
11th instant, enclosing an order of the Paisley 
banking company on the royal bank, for 
twenty-two pounds seven shillings sterling, 
payment in full, after carriage deducted, for 
ninety copies of my book I sent you. Accord- 
ing to your motions, 1 see you will have left 
Scotland before this reaches you, otherwise I 



L J nine*. Earl of Glencairn. 



Seeloem LXXXI1I. 



would send you " Iloly Willie" with all my 
heart. I was so hurried that I absolutely for- 
got several things I ought to have minded, 
among the rest, sending books to Mr. Cowan : 
but any order of yours will be answered at 
Creech's shop. You will please remember that 
non-subscribers pay six shillings, this is Creech's 
profit; but those who have subscribed, though 
their names have been neglected in the printed 
list, which is very incorrect, are supplied at 
subscription price. I was not at Glasgow, nor 
do I intend for London; and I think Mrs. 
Fame is very idle to tell so many lies on a poor 
poet. When you or Mr. Cowan write for co- 
pies, if you should want any, direct to Mr. Hill, 
at Mr. Creech's shop, and I write to Mr. Hill by 
this post, to answer either of your orders. Hill 
is Mr. Creech's first clerk, and Creech himself 
is presently in London. I suppose I shall have 
the pleasure, against your return to Paisley, of 
assuring you how much I am, dear Sir, youl 
obliged humble servant, 

R.B. 



LXIII. 

MASTER OF THE HIGH SCHOOL, EDINBURGH. 



[Jenny Geddes was a zealous old woman, who threw the stool on 
which she sat, at the Dean of Edinburgh's head, when, in 1(537, he 
attempted to introduce a Scottish Liturgy, and cried as she thrc.v, 
" Villain, wilt thou say the mass at my lug !" The poet named hla 
mare after this virago.] 



Carlisle, June 1, 1787. 
Kind, honest-hearted Willie, 

I'm sitten down here after seven and forty 
miles ridin', e'en as forjesket and forniaw'd as 
a forfoughten cock, to gie you some notion o' 
my land lowper-like stravaguin sin the sorrowfu' 
hour that I sheuk hands and parted wi' auld 
Reekie. 

My auld, ga'd gleyde o' a meere has huch- 
yall'd up hill and down brae, in Scotland 
and England, as teugh and birnie as a vera 
devil wi' me. It's true, she's as poor's as a 
sang-maker and as hard's a kirk, and tipper- 
taipers when she taks the gate, first like a lady's 
gentlew; man in a minuwae, or a hen on a het 
girdle; but she's a yauld, poutherie Girran for 
a' that, and has a stomack like Willie Stalker's 
meere that wad hae disgeested tumbler-wheels, 
for she'll whip me aff her five stimparts o' the 
best aits at a down-sittin and ne'er fash her 
thumb. When ance her ringbanes and spavies,her 
crucks and cramps, are fairly soupl'd, she beets 
to, beets to, and ay the hindmost hour the tight- 
est. I could wager her price to a thretty pen* 



260 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



nies. that for twa or three wooks ri din at fifty- 
miles a day, the deil-sticket a five gallopers 
acquccsh Clyde and Whithorn could cast saut 
on her tail. 

I hac dander'd owre a' the kintra frae Dum- 
bar to Selcraig, and hae forgather'd wi' monie 
a guid fallow, and monie a weelfar'd huzzie. 
I met wi' twa dink quines in particlar, ane 
o' them a sonsie, fine, fodgel lass, baith braw 
and bonnie ; the tither was a clean-shankit, 
straught, tight, weelfar'd winch, as blythe's a 
lintwhite on a flowerie thorn, and as sweet 
and modest's a new-blawn plumrose in a 
hazle shaw. They were baith bred to mainers 
by the beuk, and onie ane o' them had as muc- 
kle smeddum and rumblgumtion as the half o' 
some presbytries that you and I baith ken. 
They play'd me sik a deevilo' a shavie that I 
daur say if my harigals wore turn'd out, ye 
wad see twa nicks i ; the heart o' me like the 
mark o' a kail-whittle in a castock. 

I was gaun to write you a lang pystle, but, 
Gude forgie me, I gat mysel sae noutouriously 
bitchify'd the day after kail-time, that I can 
hardly stoiter but and ben. 

My best respecks to the guidwife and a' 
our common friens, especiall Mr. and Mrs. 
Cruikshank, and the honest guidman o' Jock's 
Lodge. 

I'll be in Dumfries the morn gif the beast be 
to the fore, and the branks bide hale. 

Gude be wi' you, Willie ! Amen ! 

R. B. 



LX1V 

AT MILLER AND SMITH'S OFFICE, LINLITHGOW. 



(Burns, it seems by this letter, had still a belief that he would 
be obliged to try his fortune in the West Indies : he soon saw 
bow hollow all the hopes were, which had been formed by his 
'"■Tends of " pension, post or place," in his native land.] 



Mauchline, l\th Jtine, 1787- 
My ever dear Sir, 

I date this from Mauchline, where I arrived 
on Friday even last. I slept at John Dow's, 
and called for my daughter. Mr. Hamilton 
and family ; your mother, sister, and brother ; 
my quondam Eliza, &c, all well. If any thing 
bad been wanting to disgust me completely at 
Armour's family, their mean, servile compliance 
would have done it. 

Give me a spirit like my favourite hero, Mil- 
ton's Satan: 

Hail, honours ! hail, 
Infernal world ! and thou profoundest hell, 
Receive thy new possessor ! he who brings 
A mind not to be chang'd I y place or time! 

I cannot settle to my mind. — Farming, tnc 
only thing of which I know any thing, and 



heaven above knows, but little do I undei stand 
of that, I cannot, dare not risk on farms as they 
are. If I do not fix, I will go for Jamaica. 
Should I stay in an unsettled state at home, I 
would only dissipate my little fortune, and rum 
what I intend shall compensate my little ones, 
for the stigma I have brought on their names. 

I shall write you more at large soon ; as thus 
letter costs you no postage, if it be worth read- 
ing you cannot complain of your penny-worth. 
I am ever, my dear Sir, 
Yours, 

R.B. 

P.S. The cloot has unfortunately broke, but 
I have provided a fine buffalo-horn, on which. I 
am going to affix the same cypher which yon 
will remember was on the lid of the cloot. 



LXV. 
®o S&Ultam JUcol, 3E$>q. 



[The charm which Dtimfres threw over the poet, <seems to have 
dissolved like a spell, when he sat down in Eliisland : lie apolu^ 
for a time, with little respect of either place or people. J 



Mauchline, June 18, 1787» 
My dear Friend, 

I am now arrived safe in my native country, 
after a very agreeable jaunt, and have the plea- 
sure to find all my friends well. I breakfasted 
with your gray-headed, reverend friend, Mr. 
Smith ; and was highly pleased both with the 
cordial welcome he gave me, and his most ex- 
cellent appearance and sterling good sense. 

I have been with Mr. Miller at Dalswin- 
ton, and am to meet him again in August, 
From my view of the lands, and his reception 
of my hardship, my hopes in that business are 
rather mended ; but still they are but slender. 

I am quite charmed with Dumfries folks 
— Mr. Burnside, the clergyman, in particular, is 
a man whom I shall ever gratefully remember ; 
and his wife, Gude forgie me ! I had almost 
broke the tenth commandment on her account. 
Simplicity, elegance, good sense, sweetness of 
disposition, good humour, kind hospitality, are 
the constituents of her manner and heart : in 
short — but if I say one word more about her, I 
shall be directly in love with her. 

I never, my friend, thought mankind very ca- 
pable of anything generous ; but the stateliness 
of the patricians in Edinburgh, and the servility 
of my plebian brethren (who perhaps formerly 
eyed me askance) since I returned home, 
have nearly put me out of conceit altogether 
with my species. I have bought a pocket Mil- 
ton, which I carry perpetually about with me, 
in order to study the sentiments — the daunt- 
less magnanimity, the intreuid, unyielding iude- 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



201 



pendence, the desperate daring, and noble de- 
fiance of hardship, in that great personage, Sa- 
tan. 'Tis true, I havejust now a little cash; but 
I am afraid the star that hitherto has shed its 
malignant, purpose-blasting rays full in my 
zenith ; that noxious planet so baneful in its 
influences to the rhyming tribe, I much dread it 
is not yet beneath my horizon. — Misfortune 
dodges the path of human life; the poetic 
mind finds itself miserably deranged in, and 
unfit for the walks of business; add to all, that 
thoughtless follies and hare-brained whims, like 
so many ignes fatui, eternally diverging from 
the right line of sober discretion, sparkle with 
step-bewitching blaze in the idly-gazing eyes of 
the poor heedless bard, till, pop, " he falls like 
Lucifer, never to hope again." God grant this 
may be an unreal picture with respect to me ! 
but should it not, I have very little dependence 
on mankind. I will close my letter with 
this tribute my heart bids me pay you — 
the many ties of acquaintance and friendship 
which I have, or think I have in life, I have felt 
along the lines, and, damn them, they are al- 
most all of them of such frail contexture, that 
I am sure they would not stand the breath of 
the least adverse breeze of fortune ; but from 
you, my ever dear Sir, I look with confidence 
for the apostolic love that shall wait on me 
" through good report and bad report" — the 
love which Solomon emphatically says "is strong 
as death." My compliments to Mrs. Nicol, 
and all the circle of our common friends. 

P.S. I shall be in Edinburgh about the latter 
end of July. 

R.B. 



LXVI. 
2To #flr. Samcg ©anfclteJ). 



[Candlish was a classic scholar, but had a iove for the songs of 
Scotland, as well as for the poetry of Greece, and Rome. J 



Edinburgh, 1787. 
My dear Friend, 
If once I were gone from this scene of hurry 
and dissipation, I promise myself the pleasure 
of that correspondence being renewed which 
has been so long broken. At present I have 
time for nothing. Dissipation and business en- 
gross every moment. I am engaged in assist- 
ing an honest Scotch enthusiast, 1 a friend of 
mine, who is an engraver, and has taken it into 
his head to publish a collection of all our songs 
set to music, of which the words and music are 
done by Scotsmen. This, you will easily guess, 
is an undertaking exactly to my taste. I have 
fjollected, begged, borrowed, and stolen, all the 



1 Johnson, the publisher ana proprietor of the Musical Museum. 



songs I could meet with. Pompey's Ghost, 
words and music, I beg from you immediately, 
to go into his second number : the first is 
already published. I shall show you the first 
number when I see you in Glasgow, which will 
be in a fortnight or less. Do be so kind as to 
send me the song in a day or two; you cannot 
imagine how much it will oblige me. 

Direct to me at Mr. W. Cruikshank's, St. 
James's Square, New Town, Edinburgh. 

R.B. 



LXVII 

&o Kofrert & incite, <£$q. 



[*' Rums had a memory stored with the finest poetical passages, 
which he was in the habit of quoting most aptly in his correspon- 
dence with his friends : and he delighted also in repeating them In 
the company of those friends who enjoyed them." These are the 
words of Ainslie, of Berrywell, to whom this letter is addressed.] 



Arracher, 23th June, 178?. 
My dear Sir, 
I write on my tour through a country where 
savage streams tumble over savage mountains, 
thinly overspread with savage flocks, which 
sparingly support as savage inhabitants. My 
last stage was Inverary — to-morrow night's 
stage Dumbarton. I ought sooner to have an- 
swered your kind letter, but you know I am a 
man of many sins. 

R.B. 



LXVIII 
%o S&tUtam ttficol, ^gq. 



[This risit to Auchtertyre produced that sweet lyric, beginning 
" Blythe, blythe and merry was she ;" and the lady who inspired it 
was at his side, when he wrote this letter.] 



Auchtertyre, Monday, June, 1787 
My dear Sir, 
I find myself very comfortable here, neither 
oppressed by ceremony nor mortified by neg- 
lect. Lady Augusta is a most engaging woman, 
and very happy in her family, which makes 
one's outgoings and incomings very agreeable, 
I called at Mr. Ramsay's of Auchtertyre as I 
came up the country, and am so delighted with 
him that I shall certainly accept of his invita- 
tion to spend a day or two with him as I return. 
I leave this place on Wednesday or Thursday. 

Make my kind compliments to Mr. and Mrs 
Cruikshank and Mrs. Nicol, if she is returned. 
I am ever, dear Sir, 

Your deeply indebted, 

R.JB 

3 x 



262 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



LXIX 

STo SOTltam ®itiiksi)ank, 1£^., 

ST. JAMES S SQUARE, EDINBURGH. 

f At the house of William Cruikshank, one of the masters of the 
High School, in Edinburgh, Burns passed many agreeable hours.] 

Auchtertyre, Monday morning. 
I have nothing, my dear Sir, to write to you, 
but that I feel myself exceedingly comfortably 
situated in this good family : just notice enough 
to make me easy but not to embarrass me. I was 
storm-staid two days at the foot of the Ochill- 
hills, with Mr. Tait of Herveyston and Mr. 
Johnston of Alva, but was so well pleased that 
I shall certainly spend a day on the banks of 
the Devon as I return. I leave this place I 
suppose on Wednesday, and shall devote a day 
to Mr. Ramsay at Auchtertyre, near Stirling : 
a man to whose worth I cannot do justice. My 
respectful kind compliments to Mrs. Cruik- 
shank, and my dear little Jeanie, and if you 
see Mr. Masterton, please remember me to him. 
I am ever, 

My dear Sir, &c. 

R.B, 



LXX. 

LINLITHGOW. 



,'The you»g lady to whom the poet alludes in this letter, was 
very beautiful, and very proud : it is said she gave him a specimen 
>f both her temper and her pride, when he touched on the subject 
.rflove.] 

June 30, 1787- 
My dear Friend, 
On our return, at a Highland gentleman's 
hospitable mansion, we fell in with a merry 
party, and danced till the ladies left us, at three 
in the morning. Our dancing was none of the 
French or English insipid formal movements ; 
the ladies sung Scotch songs like angels, at 
intervals ; then we flew at Bab at the BoAvster, 
Tullochgorum, Loch Erroch Side, &c, like 
midges sporting in the mottie sun, or craws 
prognosticating a storm in a hairst day. — When 
the dear lasses left us, we ranged round the 
bowl till the good-fellow hour of six ; except a 
few minutes that we went out to pay our devo- 
tions to the glorious lamp of day peering over 
the towering top of Benlomond. Weall kneeled ; 
our worthy landlord's son held the bowl; each 
man a full glass in his hand; and I, as priest, re- 
peated some rhyming nonsense, like Thoinas-a- 
Khymer's prophecies I suppose. — After a small 
refreshment of the gifts of Somnus, we pro- 
ceeded to spend the day on Lochlomond, and 
reach Dumbarton in the evening. We dined 
at anothor good fellow's house, and conse- 



quently, pushed the bottle ; when we went out 
to mount our horses, we found ourselves " No 
vera fou but gay lie yet." My two friends and 
I rode soberly down the Loch side, till by camo 
a Highlandman at the gallop, on a tolerably 
good horse, but which had never known the 
ornaments of iron or leather. We scorned to be 
out-galloped by a Highlandman, so off we started, 
whip and spur. My companions, though seem- 
ingly gaily mounted, fell sadly astern ; but my 
old mare, Jenny G-eddes, one of the Rosinante 
family, she strained past the Highlandman in 
spite of all his efforts with the hair halter ; just 
as I was passing him, Donald wheeled his horse, 
as if to cross before me to mar my progress, when 
down came his horse, and threw his rider's breek- 
less a — e in a dipt hedge ; and down came Jenny 
Geddes over all, and my hardship between her 
and the Highlandman's horse. Jenny Geddes 
trode over me with such cautious reverence, that 
matters were not so bad as might well have been 
expected ; so I came off with a few cuts and 
bruises, and a thorough resolution to be a pat- 
tern of sobriety for the future. 

I have yet fixed on nothing with respect to 
the serious business of life. I am, just as usual, 
a rhyming, mason-making, raking, aimless, idle 
fellow. However, I shall somewhere have a 
farm soon. I was going to say, a wife too ; but 
that must never be my blessed lot. I am but a 
younger son of the house of Parnassus, and like 
other younger sons of great families, I may in- 
trigue, if I choose to run all risks, but must not 
marry. 

I am afraid I have almost ruined one source, 
the principal one, indeed, of my former happi- 
ness ; that eternal propensity I always had to 
fall in love. My heart no more glows with fe- 
verish rapture. I have no paradisaical evening 
interviews, stolen from the restless cares and 
prying inhabitants of this weary world. I have 
only * * * * This last is one of your distant 
acquaintances, has a fine figure, and elegant 
manners ; and in the train of some great folks 
whom you know, has seen the politest quarters 
in Europe. I do like her a good deal ; but what 
piques me is her conduct at the commencement 
of our acquaintance. I frequently visited her 
when I was in , and after passing regu- 
larly the intermediate degrees between the dis- 
tant formal bow and the familiar grasp round 
the waist, I ventured, in my careless way, to 
talk of friendship in rather ambiguous terms ; 

and after her return to , I wrote to her 

in the same style. Miss, construing my words 
farther I suppose than even I intended, flew off 
in a tangent of female dignity and reserve, like 
a mounting lark in an April morning ; and wrote 
me an answer which measured me out very com- 
pletely what an immense way I had to travel 
before I could reach the climate of her favour. 
But I am an old hawk at the sport, and wrote 
her such a cool, deliberate, prudent reply, as 
brought my bird from her aerial towerings, pop, 
down at my foot, like Corporal Trim's kai. 






OF ROBERT BURNS. 



263 



As for the rest of nty acts, and my wars, and 
Mil iny wise sayings, and why my mare was called 
Jenny Geddes, they shall be recorded in a few 
weeks hence at Linlithgow, in the chronicles of 
your memorv, by 

R. B. 



LXXI. 



[Mr. John Richmond, writer, was one of the poet's earliest snd 
firmest friends: he shared his room with him when they met in Edin- 
burgh, and did him many little offices of kindness and regard. J 



Mossgiel, 1th July, 1787- 
Mv dear Richmond, 

I am all impatience to hear of your fate since 
the old confounder of right and wrong has turned 
you out of place, by his journey to answer his 
indictment at the bar of the other world. He 
will find the practice of the court so different 
from the practice in which he has for so many 
years been thoroughly hackneyed, that his 
friends, if he had any connections truly of that 
kind, which I rather doubt, may well tremble 
for his sake. His chicane, his left-handed wis- 
dom, which stood so firmly by him, to such good 
purpose, here, like other accomplices in robbery 
and plunder, will, now the piratical business is 
blown, in all probability turn king's evidences, 
and then the devil's bagpiper will touch him off 
" Bundle and go !" 

If he has left you any legacy, I beg your par- 
don for aJJ this ; if not, I know you will swear 
to every word I said about him. 

I have lately been rambling over by Dumbar- 
ton and Inverary, and running a drunken race 
on the side of Loch Lomond with a wild High- 
landman ; his horse, which had never known 
the ornaments of iron or leather, zigzagged 
across before my old spavin 'd hunter, whose 
name is Jenny Geddes, and down came the 
Highlandman, horse and all, and down came 
Jenny and my hardship ; so I have got such a 
skinful of bruises and wounds, that I shall be 
at least four weeks before I dare venture on my 
journey to Edinburgh. 

Not one new thing under the sun has happened 
in Mauchline since you left it. I hope this will 
find you as comfortably situated as formerly, or, 
if heaven pleases, more so ; but, at all events, I 
trust you will let me know of course how mat- 
ters stand with you, well or ill. J Tis but poor 
consolation to tell the world when matters go 
wrong ; but you know very well your connection 
and mine stands on a different footing. 

I am ever, my dear friend, yours, 

R. B. 



LXXII. 

Zo Robert &tn$lie, lEsq. 



[This letter, were proof wanting, shows the friendly and familiar 
footing on which Bums stood with the Ainslies, and more pajticu- 
lariy with the author of that popular work, the " Reasons for the 
Hope that is in us."] 



Mauchline, 23rd July, 1787 
My dear Ainslie, 
There is one thing for which I set great store 
by you as a friend, and it is this, that I have not 
a friend upon earth, besides yourself, to whom 
I can talk nonsense without forfeiting some de- 
gree of his esteem. Now, to one like me, who 
never cares for speaking any thing else but non- 
sense, such a friend as you is an invaluable trea- 
sure. I was never a rogue, but have been a fool 
all my life ; and, in spite of all my endeavours, 
I see now plainly that I shall never be wise. 
Now it rejoices my heart to have met with such 
a fellow as you, who, though you are not just 
such a hopeless fool as I, yet I trust you will 
never listen so much to the temptations of the 
devil as to grow so very wise that you will in 
the least disrespect an honest fellow because he 
is a fool. In short, I have set you down as the 
staff of my old age, when the whole list of my 
friends will, after a decent share of pity, have 
forgot me. 

Though in the morn comes sturt and strife, 

Yet joy may come at noon ; 
And I hope to live a merry, merry life 

When a' thir days are done. 

Write me soon, were it but afew lines just to tell 
me how that good sagacious man your father is — 
that kind dainty body your mother — that strap- 
ping chiel your brother Douglas — and my friend 
Rachel, who is as far before Rachel of old, as 
she was before her blear-eyed sister Leah. 

R. B. 



LXX1I1 



r The " savage hospitality" of which Burns complains in this letter 
was at that time an evil fashion in Scotland : the bottle was made to 
circulate rapidly, and every glass was drunk «• clean caup out."J 



Mauchline, July, 1 787. 
My dear Sir, 
My life, since I saw you last, has been one 
continued hurry ; that savage hospitality which 
knocks a man down with strong liquors, is the 
deviL I have a sore warfare in this world ; the 
devil, the world, and the flesh are three formid- 
able foes. The first I generally try to fly from ; 
the second, alas ! generally flies from me ; but 



2(54 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



the third is my plague, worse than the ten plagues 

of Egypt- • . ,. 

I have heen looking over several farms in this 
country; one in particular, in Nithsdale, pleased 
me so well, that if my offer to the proprietor is 
accepted, I shall commence farmer at Whit- 
Sunday. If farming do not appear eligible, I 
shall have recourse to my other shift : but this 
to a friend. 

I set out for Edinburgh on Monday morning ; 
how long I stay there is uncertain, but you will 
know so soon as I can inform you myself. How- 
ever I determine, poesy must be laid aside for 
some time; my mind has been vitiated with 
idleness, and it will take a good deal of effort to 
habituate it to the routine of business. 
I am, my dear Sir, 

Yours sincerely, 

K. B. 



LXXTV. 



[Di. Moore was one of the first to point out the beauty of the lyric 
compositions of Burns. " < Green grow the Rashes/ and of the two 
songs," says he, " which follow, beginning ( Again rejoicing nature 
sees,' and 'The gloomy night is gathering fast;' the latter is ex- 
quisite. By the way, I imagine you have a peculiar talent for such 
compositions which you ought to indulge: no kind of poetry de- 
mands more delicacy or higher polishing." On this letter to Moore 
a'l the biographies of Burns are founded.! 



Mauchline, 2nd August, 1787- 
Sm, 

For some months past I have been rambling 
over the country, but I am now confined with 
some lingering complaints, originating, as I take 
it, in the stomach. To divert my spirits a little 
in this miserable fog of ennui, I have taken a 
whim to give you a history of myself. My name 
has made some little noise in this country ; you 
have done me the honour to interest yourself 
very warmly in my behalf; and I think a faith- 
ful account of what character of a man I am, 
and how I came by that character, may perhaps 
amuse you in an idle moment. I will give you 
an honest narrative, though I know it will be 
often at my own expense ; for I assure you, Sir, 
I have, like Solomon, whose character, excepting 
in the trifling affair of wisdom, I sometimes think 
I resemble, — I have, I say, like him turned my 
eyes to behold madness and folly, and like him, 
too, frequently shaken hands with their intoxi- 
cating friendship. — After you have perused these 
pages, should you think them trifling and imper- 
tinent, I only beg leave to tell you, that the 
poor author wrote them under some twitching 
qualms of conscience, arising from a suspicion 
that he was doing what he ought not to do ; a 
predicament he has more than once been in be- 
fore. 

I have not the most distant pretensions to as- 
sume that character which the pye-coated 



guardians of escutcheons call a gentleman. 
When at Edinburgh last winter, I got ac- 
quainted in the herald's office ; and, looking 
through that granary of honours, I there found 
almost every name in the kingdom; but for 
me, 

" My ancient but ignoble blood 
Has crept thro' scoundrels ever since the flood.' 

Poi-K 

Gules, purpure, argent, &c. quite disowned me. 
My father was of the north of Scotland, the 
son of a farmer, and was thrown by early mis- 
fortunes on the world at large ; where, after 
many years' wanderings and sojournings, he 
picked up a pretty large quantity of observation 
and experience, to which I am indebted for 
most of my little preteisions to wisdom — I have 
met with few who understood men, their man- 
ners, and their ways, equal to him ; but stub- 
born, ungainly integrity, and headlong, ungo- 
vernable irascibility, are disqualifying circum- 
stances ; consequently, I was born a very poor 
man's son. For the first six or seven years of 
my life, my father was gardener to a worthy 
gentleman of small estate in the neighbourhood 
of Ayr. Had he continued in that station 1 
must have marched off to be one of the little 
underlings about a farm-house ; but it was Ins 
dearest wish and prayer to have it in his power 
to keep his children under his own eye, till they 
could discern between good and evil ; so, with the 
assistance of his generous master, my father 
ventured on a small farm on his estate. At 
those years, I was by no means a favourite with 
any body. I was a good deal noted for a reten- 
tive memory, a stubborn sturdy something in 
my disposition, and an enthusiastic idiot x piety. 
I say idiot piety, because I was then but a child. 
Though it cost the schoolmaster some thrashings, 
I made an excellent English scholar ; and by 
the time I was ten or eleven years of age, I was 
a critic in substantives, verbs, and particles. In 
my infant and boyish days, too, I owed much to 
an old woman who resided in the family, re- 
markable for her ignorance, credulity, and su- 
perstition. She had, I suppose, the largest col- 
lection in the country of tales and songs concern- 
ing devils, ghosts, fairies, brownies, witches, 
warlocks, spunkies, kelpies, elf-candles, dead- 
lights, wraiths, apparitions, cantraips, giants, 
enchanted towers, dragons and other trumpery. 
This cultivated the latent seeds of poetry ; but 
had so strong an effect on my imagination, that 
to this hour, in my nocturnal rambles, I some- 
times keep a sharp look out in suspicious places; 
and though nobody c&n be more sceptical than I 
am in such matters, yet it often takes an effort 
of philosophy to shake off these idle terrors. 
The earliest composition that I recollect taking 
pleasure in, was The Vision of Mirza, and a 
hymn of Addison's beginning, " How are thy 
servants blest, O Lord I" I particularly remem- 

' Idiot for idiot'c 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



505 



fror one half-stanza which was music to my boy- 
ish ear— 

" For though in dreadful whirls we hung 
High on the broken wave—" 

I met with these pieces in Mason's English Col- 
lection, one of my school-books. The first two 
books 1 ever read in private, and which gave me 
more pleasure than any two books I ever read 
since, were The Life of Hannibal, and The His- 
tory of Sir William Wallace. Hannibal gave 
my young ideas such a turn, that I used to strut 
in raptures up and down after the recruiting 
drum and bag-pipe, and wish myself tall enough 
to be a soldier ; while the story of Wallace 
poured a Scottish prejudice into my veins, which 
will boil along there till the flood-gates of life 
shut in eternal rest. 

Polemical divinity about this time was putting 
the country half mad, and I, ambitious of shin- 
ing in conversation parties on Sundays, between 
sermons, at funerals, &c, used a few years after- 
wards to puzzle Calvinism with so much heat 
and indiscretion, that I raised a hue and cry of 
heresy against me, which has not ceased to this 
hour. 

My vicinity to Ayr was of some advantage to 
me. My social disposition, when not checked 
by some modifications of spirited pride, was like 
our catechism definition of infinitude, without 
bounds or limits. I formed several connexions 
with other younkers, who possessed superior ad- 
vantages ; the youngling actors who were busy 
in the rehearsal of parts, in which they were 
shortly to appear on the stage of life, where, 
alas ! I was destined to drudge behind the 
scenes. It is not commonly at this green age, 
that our young gentry have a just sense of the 
immense distance between them and their ragged 
playfellows. It takes a few dashes into the 
world, to give the young great man that proper, 
decent, unnoticing disregard for the poor, insig- 
nificant stupid devils, the mechanics and pea- 
santry around him, who were, perhaps, born in 
the same village. My young superiors never 
insulted the clouterly appearance of my plough- 
boy carcase, the two extremes of which were 
often exposed to all the inclemencies of all the 
seasons. They would give me stray volumes of 
books ; among them, even then, I could pick up 
some observations, and one, whose heart, I am 
sure, not even the " Munny Begum" scenes have 
tainted, helped me to a little French. Parting 
with these my young friends and benefactors, as 
they occasionally went off for the East or West 
Indies, was often to me a sore affliction ; but I 
was soon called to more serious evils. My 
father's generous master died ! the farm proved 
a ruinous bargain ; and to clench the misfortune, 
wfe fell into the hands of a factor, who sat for 
the picture I have drawn of one in my tale of 
" The Twa Dogs." My father was advanced in 
life when he married ; I was the eldest of seven 
children, and he, worn out by early hardships, 
was unfit foe labour. My father's spirit was 



soon irritated, but not easily broken. There 
was a freedom in his lease in two years more, 
and to weather these two years, we retrenched 
our expenses. We lived very poorly ; I was a 
dexterous ploughman for my age ; and the next 
eldest to me was a brother (Gilbert), who could 
drive the plough very well, and help me to thrash 
the corn. A novel-writer might, perhaps, have 
viewed these scenes with some satisfaction, but 
so did not I ; my indignation yet boils at the 
recollection of the scoundrel factor's insolent 
threatening letters, which used to set us all in 
tears. 

This kind of life — the cheerless gloom of a 
hermit, with the unceasing moil of a galley-slave, 
brought me to my sixteenth year ; a little before 
which period I first committed the sin of rhyme* 
You know our country custom of coupling a 
man and woman together as partners in the 
labours of harvest. In my fifteenth autumn, my 
partner was a bewitching creature, a year 
younger than myself. My scarcity of English 
denies me the power of doing her justice in that 
language, but you know the Scottish idiom : she 
was a " bonnie, sweet, sonsie lass." In short, 
she, altogether unwittingly to herself, initiated 
me in that delicious passion, which, in spite of 
acid disappointment, gin-horse prudence, and 
book-worm philosophy, I hold to be the first of 
human joys, our dearest blessing here below ! 
How she caught the contagion I cannot tell ; 
you medical people talk much of infection from 
breathing the same air, the touch, &c. ; but I 
never expressly said I loved her. — Indeed, I did 
not know myself why I liked so much to loiter 
behind with her, when returning in the evening 
from our labours ; why the tones of her voice 
made my heart-strings thrill like an jEolian 
harp ; and particularly why my pulse beat such 
a furious ratan, when I looked and fingered over 
her little hand to pick out the cruel nettle-stings 
and thistles. Among her other love-inspiring 
qualities, she sung sweetly ; and it was her fa- 
vourite reel to which I attempted giving an em- 
bodied vehicle in rhyme. I was not so presump- 
tuous as to imagine that I could make verses 
like printed ones, composed by men who had 
Greek and Latin ; but my girl 6ung a song 
which was said to be composed by a small coun- 
try laird's son, on one of his father's maids, with 
w T hom he was in love ; and I saw no reason why 
I might not rhyme as well as he ; for, excepting 
that he could smear sheep, and cast peats, his 
father living in the moorlands, he had no more 
scholar-craft than myself. 

Thus with me began leve and poetry ; which 
at times have been my only, and till within the 
last twelve months, have been my highest en- 
joyment. My father struggled on till he reached 
the freedom in his lease, when he entered on a 
larger farm, about ten miles farther in the coun- 
try. The nature of the bargain he made was 
such as to throw a little ready money into his 
hands at the commencement of his lease, other- 
wise the affair would have been impracticable. 
3 Y 



266 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



For four years we lived comfortably here, but a 
difference commencing between him and his 
landlord as to terms, after three years tossing 
and whirling in the vortex of litigation, my father 
was just saved from the horrors of a jail, by a 
consumption, which, after two years' promises, 
kindly stepped in, and carried him away, to where 
the wicked cease from troubling, and where the 
weary are at rest ! 

It is during the time that we lived on this farm, 
that my little story is most eventful. I was, at 
the beginning of this period, perhaps, the most 
ungainly awkward boy in the parish — no solitaire 
was loss acquainted with the ways of the world. 
What I knew of ancient story was gathered 
from Salmon's and Guthrie's Geographical 
Grammars ; and the ideas I had formed of mo- 
dern manners, of literature, and criticism, I got 
from the Spectator. These, with Pope's Works, 
some Plays of Shakspeare, Tull and Dickson on 
Agriculture, The Pantheon, Locke's Essay on 
the Human Understanding, Stackhouse's His- 
tory of the Bible, Justice's British Gardener's 
Directory, Boyle's Lectures, Allan Ramsay's 
Works, Taylor's Scripture Doctrine of Original 
Sin, A Select Collection of English Songs, and 
Hervey's Meditations, had formed the whole of 
my reading. The collection of Songs was my 
vade mecwn. I pored over them, driving my 
cart, or walking to labour, song by song, verse 
by verse ; carefully noting the true tender, or 
sublime, from affectation and fustian. I am con- 
vinced I owe to this practice much of my critic- 
craft, such as it is. 

In my seventeenth year, to give my manners 
a brush, I went to a country dancing- school. 
My father had an unaccountable antipathy 
against these meetings, and my going was, what 
to this moment I repent, in opposition to his 
wishes. My father, as I said before, was sub- 
ject to strong passions ; from that instance of 
disobedience in me, he took a sort of dislike to 
me, which, I believe, was one cause of the dissi- 
pation which marked my succeeding years. I 
say dissipation, comparatively with the strict- 
ness, and sobriety, and regularity of Presbyterian 
country life ; for though the will-o'-wisp meteors 
of thoughtless whim were almost the sole lights 
of my path, yet early ingrained piety and virtue 
kept me for several years afterwards within the 
line of innocence. The great misfortune of my 
life was to want an aim. I had felt early some 
stirrings of ambition, but they were the blind 
gropings of Homer's Cyclops round the walls of 
his cave. I saw my father's situation entailed 
on me perpetual labour. The only two openings 
by which I could enter the temple of fortune 
were the gate of niggardly economy, or the path 
of little chicaining bargain-making. The first is 
so contracted an aperture I never could squeeze 
myself into it — the last I always hated — there 
was contamination in the very entrance ! Thus 
abandoned of aim or view in life, with a strong 
appetite for sociability, as well from native 
hilarity, as from a pride of observation and re- 



mark ; a constitutional melancholy or hypochon- 
driasm that made me fly solitude ; add to these 
incentives to social life, my reputation for bookish 
knowledge, a certain wild logical talent, and a 
strength of thought, something like the rudi 
ments of good sense ; and it will not seem sur- 
prising that I was generally a welcome guest 
where I visited, or any great wonder that always, 
where two or three met together, there was I 
among them. But far beyond all other impulses 
of my heart, was vn, penchant a, V adorable moitie 
du genre humain. My heart was completely tin- 
der, and was eternally lighted up by some god- 
dess or other ; and, as in every other warfare in 
this world, my fortune was various ; sometimes 
I was received with favour, and sometimes I 
was mortified with a repulse. At the plough, 
scythe, or reap-hook, I feared no competitor, 
and thus I set absolute want at defiance; and as 
I never cared farther for my labours than while 
I was in actual exercise, I spent the evenings in 
the way after my own heart. A country lad 
seldom carries on a love adventure without an 
assisting confidant. I possessed a curiosity, zeal, 
and intrepid dexterity that recommended me as 
a proper second on these occasions ; and I dare 
say, I felt as much pleasure in being in the secret 
of half the loves of the parish of Tarbolton, as 
ever did statesman in knowing the intrigues of 
half the courts of Europe. The very goose-fea- 
ther in my hand seems to know instinctively the 
well-worn path of my imagination, the favourite 
theme of my song ; and is with difficulty re- 
strained from giving you a couple of paragraphs 
on the love-adventures of my compeers, the 
humble inmates of the farm-house and cottage; 
but the grave sons of science, ambition, or ava- 
rice baptize these things by the name of follies. 
To the sons and daughters of labour and poverty 
they are matters of the most serious nature : to 
them the ardent hope, the stolen interview, the 
tender farewell, are the greatest and most deli- 
cious parts of their enjoyments. 

Another circumstance in my life which made 
some alteration in my mind and manners, was, 
that I spent my nineteenth summer on a smug- 
gling coast, a good distance from home, at 
a noted school, to learn mensuration, survey- 
ing, dialling, &c, in which I made a pretty 
good progress. But I made a greater pro- 
gress in the knowledge of mankind. The 
contraband trade was at that time very suc- 
cessful, and it sometimes happened to me to 
fall in with those who carried it on. Scenes 
of swaggering riot and roaring dissipation 
were, till this time, new to me; but I was 
no enemy to social life. Here, though I learnt 
to fill my glass, and to mix without fear in a 
drunken squabble, yet I went on with a high 
hand with my geometry, till the sun entered 
Virgo, a month which is always a carnival in 
my bosom, when a charming fillette, who lived 
next door to the school, overset my trigonome- 
try, and set me off at a tangent from the spheres 
of my studies. I 7 however, struggled on with 



OF 110BRKT BURNS. 



207 



my sines and eo-sincs for a few days more ; but 
stepping into the garden one charming noon to 
take the sun's altitude, there I met my angel, 

♦• Like Proserpine gathering flower* 
Herself a fairer flower " l 

It was in vain to think of doing any more 
good at school. The remaining week I staid I 
did nothing but craze the faculties of my soul 
about her, or steal out to meet her ; and the two 
last nights of my stay in the country, had sleep 
been a. mortal sm, the image of this modest and 
innocent girl had kept me guiltless. 

I returned home very considerably improved. 
My reading was enlarged with the very import- 
ant addition of Thomson's and Shenstone's 
works ; I had seen human nature in a new 
phasis ; and I engaged several of my schoolfel- 
lows to keep up a literary correspondence with 
me. This improved me in composition. I had 
met with a collection of letters by the wits of 
Queen Anne's reign, and I pored over them 
most devoutly. I kept copies of any of my own 
letters that pleased me, and a comparison be- 
tween them and the composition of most of my 
correspondents flattered my vanity. I carried 
this whim so far, that though I had not three- 
farthings' worth of business in the world, yet 
almost every post brought me as many letters as 
if I had been a broad plodding son of the day- 
book and ledger. 

My life flowed on much in the same course till 
my twenty-third year. Vive V amour, et vive la 
bagatelle, were my sole principles of action. The 
addition of two more authors to my library gave 
me great pleasure; Sterne and Mackenzie — 
Tristram Shandy and the Man of Feeling were 
my bosom favourites. Poesy was still a darling 
walk for my mind, but it was only indulged in 
according to the humour of the hour. I had 
usually half a dozen or more pieces on hand ; I 
took up one or other, as it suited the momentary 
tone of the mind, and dismissed the work as it 
bordered on fatigue. My passions, when once 
lighted up, raged like so many devils, till they 
got vent in rhyme ; and then the conning over 
my verses, like a spell, soothed all into quiet ! 
None of the rhymes of those days are in print, 
except "Winter, a dirge," the eldest of my 
printed pieces ; " The Death of poor Maillie," 
" John Barleycorn," and songs first, second, and 
third. Song second was the ebullition of that 
passion which ended the forementioned school- 
business. 

My twenty-third year was to me an important 
sera. Partly through whim, and partly that I 
wished to set about doing something in life, I 
joined a flax-dresser in a neighbouring town 
(Irvine), to learn his trade. This was an un- 
lucky affair. My * * * and to finish the whole, 
as we were giving a welcome carousal to the 
new year, the shop took fire and burnt to ashes, 



Paradise Lost, b, lv 



and I was left, like a true poet, not worth a six- 
pence. 

I was obliged to give up this scheme ; the 
clouds of misfortune were gathering thick round 
my father's head ; and, what was worst of all, 
he was visibly far gone in a consumption ; and 
to crown my distresses, a belle fille, whom I 
adored, and who had pledged her soul to meet 
me in the field of matrimony, jilted me, with 
peculiar circumstances of mortification. The 
finishing evil that brought up the rear of this in- 
fernal file, was my constitutional melancholy 
being increased to such a dagree, that for three 
months I was in a state of mind scarcely to be 
envied by the hopeless Avretches who have got 
their mittimus— depart from me, ye cursed ! 

From this adventure I learned something of a 
town life ; but the principal thing which gave 
my mind a turn, was a friendship I formed with 
a young fellow, a very noble character, but a 
hapless son of misfortune. He was the son of a 
simple mechanic ; but a great man in the neigh- 
bourhood taking him under his patronage, gave 
him a genteel education, with a view of better- 
ing his situation in life. The patron dying just 
as he was ready to launch out into the world, the 
poor fellow in despair went to sea ; where, after 
a variety of good and ill-fortune, a little before 
I was acquainted with him he had been set on 
shore by an American privateer, on the wild 
coast of Connaught, stripped of every thing. I 
cannot quit this poor fellow's story without add- 
ing, that he is at this time master of a large 
West-Indiaman belonging to the Thames. 

His mind was fraught with independence, 
magnanimity, and every manly virtue. I loved 
and admired him to a degree of enthusiasm, and 
of course strove to imitate him. In some mea- 
sure I succeeded ; I had pride before, but he 
taught it to flow in proper channels. His know- 
ledge of the world was vastly superior to mine, 
and I was all attention to learn. He was the 
only man I ever saw who was a greater fool than 
myself where woman was the presiding star ; 
but he spoke of illicit love with the levity of a 
sailor, which hitherto I had regarded with hor- 
ror. Here his friendship did me a mischief, and 
the consequence was, that soon after I resumed 
the plough, I wrote the "Poet's "Welcome." 1 
My reading only increased while in this town 
by two stray volumes of Pamela, and one of 
Ferdinand Count Fathom, which gave me some 
idea of novels. Rhyme, except some religious 
pieces that are in print, I had given up ; but 
meeting with Fergusson's Scottish Poems, I 
strung anew my wildly-sounding lyre with emu- 
lating vigour. When my father died, his all 
went among the hell-hounds that growl in the 
kennel of justice ; but Ave made a shift to collect 
a little money in the family amongst us, with 
which, to keep us together, my brother and I 
took a neighbouring farm. My brother wanted 



l " Rob the Rhymer s Welcome to his Bastard Child, —Sec Pocrr 
X.XX.IIL 



268 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



my hair-brained imagination, as well as my so- 
cial and amorous madness ; but in good sense, 
and every sober qualification, he was far my su- 
perior. 

I entered on this farm with a full resolution, 
" come, go to, I will be wise !" I read farming 
books, I calculated crops ; I attended markets ; 
and in short, in spite of the devil, and the world, 
and the flesh, I believe I should have been a wise 
man; but the first year, from unfortunately 
buying bad seed, the second from a late harvest, 
we" lost half our crops. This overset all my wis- 
dom, and I returned, " like the dog to his vomit, 
and the sow that was washed, to her wallowing 
in the mire." 

I now began to be known in the neighbourhood 
as a maker of rhymes. The first of my poetic 
offspring that saw the light, was a burlesque la- 
mentation on a quarrel between two reverend 
Calvinists, both of them dramatis persona in my 
* ( Holy Fair." I had a notion myself that the 
piece had some merit ; but, to prevent the worst, 
1 gave a copy of it to a friend, who was very 
fond of such things, and told him that I could 
not guess who was the author of it, but that I 
thought it pretty clever. With a certain de- 
scription of the clergy, as well as laity, it met 
with a roar of applause. " Holy Willie's Prayer," 
next made its appearance, and alarmed the kirk- 
session so much, that they held several meetings 
to look over their spiritual artillery, if haply any 
of it might be pointed against profane rhymers. 
Unluckily for me, my wanderings led me on 
another side, within point-blank shot of their 
heaviest metal. This is the unfortunate story 
that gave rise to my printed poem, " The La- 
ment." This was a most melancholy affair, 
which I cannot yet bear to reflect on, and had 
very nearly given me one or two of the principal 
qualifications for a place among those who have 
lost the chart, and mistaken the reckoning of ra- 
tionality. I gave up my part of the farm to my 
brother ; in truth it was only nominally mine ; 
and made what little preparation was in my 
power for Jamaica. But, before leaving my 
native country for ever, I resolved to publish my 
poems. I weighed my productions as impar- 
tially as was in my power ; I thought they had 
merit ; and it was a delicious idea that I should 
be called a clever fellow, even though it should 
never reach my ears — a poor negro-driver — or 
perhaps a victim to that inhospitable clime, and 
aone to the world of spirits ! I can truly say, 
that pauvre inconnu as I then was, I had pretty 
ne arly as high an idea of myself and of my works 
as I have at this moment, when the public has 
decided in their favour. It ever was my opinion 
til at the mistakes and blunders, both in a rational 
and religious point of view, of which we see 
thousands daily guilty, are owing to their igno- 
rance of themselves. — To know myself had been 
all along my constant study. I weighed my- 
self alone ; I balanced myself with others ; I 
watched every means of information, to see how 
much ground I occupied as a man and as a poet; 



I studied assiduously Nature's design in my 
formation — where the lights and shades in my 
character were intended. I was pretty confi- 
dent my poems would meet with some applause; 
but, at the worst, the roar of the Atlantic would 
deafen the voice of censure, and the novelty of 
West Indian scenes make me forget neglect. I 
threw off six hundred copies, of which I had got 
subscriptions for about three hundred and fifty. 
— My vanity was highly gratified by the recep- 
tion I met with from the public ; and besides I 
pocketed, all expenses deducted, nearly twenty 
pounds. This sum came very seasonably, as I 
was thinking of indenting myself, for want of 
money to procure my passage. As soon as I was 
master of nine guineas, the price of wafting me 
to the torrid zone, I took a steerage passage in 
the first ship that was to sail from the Clyde, 
for 

'* Hungry ruin had me in the wind.'" 

I had been for some days skulking from covert 
to covert, under all the terrors of a jail ; as some 
ill-advised people had uncoupled the merciless 
pack of the law at my heels. I had taken the 
last farewell of my few friends ; my chest was 
on the road to Greenock ; I had composed the 
last song I should ever measure in Caledonia — 
" The gloomy night is gathering fast," when a 
letter from Dr. Blaeklock to a friend of mine, 
overthrew all my schemes, by opening new 
prospects to my poetic ambition. The doctor 
belonged to a set of critics for whose applause I 
had not dared to hope. His opinion, that I 
would meet with encouragement in Edinburgh 
for a second edition, fired me so much, that 
away I posted for that city, without a single ac- 
quaintance, or a single letter of introduction. 
The baneful star that had so long shed its blast- 
ing influence in my zenith, for once made a 
revolution to the nadir ; and a kind Providence 
placed me under the patronage of one of the 
noblest of men, the Earl of Glencairn. Oublie 
moi, grand Dieu, si jamais je V oublie! 

I need relate no farther. At Edinburgh I was 
in a new world ; I mingled among many classes 
of men, but all of them new to me, and I was 
all attention to " catch" the characters and " the 
manners living as they rise." Whether I have 
profited, time will show. 

* * * * 

My most respectful compliments to Miss Wil- 
liams. Her very elegant and friendly letter I 
cannot answer at present, as my presence is re- 
quisite in Edinburgh, and I set out to-morrow. 






O'i? ROBKRT BURNS. 



269 



lxxv. 

tfo Robert Slinglte, Hzuq., 

BERRYWELL DUNSE. 



This characteristic ietrcr was first published by Sir Harris Nioo- 
as ; others, still more characteristic, addressed to the same gentle- 
man, are abroad : how they escaped from private keeping is a sort of 
riddle. 1 



Edinburgh 23rd August, 1787. 
*' As I gaed up to Dunse 
To warp a pickle yarn, 
Robin, silly body, 
He gat me wi' bairn." 

From henceforth, my dear Sir, 1 am deter- 
mined to set off with my letters like the period- 
ical writers, viz. prefix a kind of text, quoted 
from some classic of undoubted authority, such 
as the author of the immortal piece, of which 
my text is a part. What I have to say on my 
text is exhausted in a letter which I wrote you 
the other day, before I had the pleasure of re- 
ceiving yours from Inverkeithing ; and sure 
never was anything more lucky, as I have but 
the time to write this, that Mr. Nicol, on the 
opposite side of the table, takes to correct a 
proof-sheet of a thesis. They are gabbling 
Latin so loud that I cannot hear what my own 
soul is saying in my own skull, so I must just 
give you a matter-of-fact sentence or two, 
and end, if time permit, with a verse de rei 
generatione. To morrow Heave Edinburgh in 
a chaise ; Nicol thinks it more comfortable than 
horse-back, to which I say, Amen; so Jenny 
Geddes goes home to Ayrshire, to use a phrase 
of my mother's, wi' her finger in her mouth. 

Now for a modest verse of classical authority : 

The cats like kitchen ; 

The dogs like broo ; 
The lasses like the lads weel, 

And th' auld wives too. 



And we're a' noddin, 

Nid, nid, noddin, 
"We're a' noddin fou at e'en. 

If this does not please you, let me hear from 
you ; if you write any time before the 1st of 
September, direct to Inverness, to be left at the 
post-office till called for; the next week at 
Aberdeen, the next at Edinburgh. 

The sheet is done, and I shall just conclude 
with assuring you that 

I am, and ever with pride shall be, 
My dear Sir, &c 

R.B. 

Call your boy what you think proper, only 
interject Burns. What do you say to a Scrip- 
ture name ? Zimri Burns Ainslie, or Archito- 
phel, &c look your Bible for these two heroes, 
if you do this, I will repay the compliment. 



LXXVI. 
©o 0Lv. Robert i&utr. 



[ No Scotsman will ever read, without emotion, the poct*fc wort* 
in this letter, and in "Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled," abou 
Bannockburn, and its glories.] 

Stirling, 26th August, 1787» 
My dear. Sir, 

I intended to have written you from Edin- 
burgh, and now write you from Stirling to 
make an excuse Here am I, on my way to 
Inverness, with a truly original, but very wor- 
thy man, a Mr. Nicol, one of the masters of the 
High-school, in Edinburgh. I left Auld Reekio 
yesterday morning, and have passed, besides by- 
excursions, Linlithgow, Borrowstouness, Fal- 
kirk, and here am I undoubtedly. This morn- 
ing I knelt at the tomb of Sir John the Graham, 
the gallant friend of the immortal Wallace; and 
two hours ago I said a fervent prayer, for Old 
Caledonia, over the hole in a blue whinstone, 
where Robert de Bruce fixed his royal stand- 
ard on the banks of Bannockburn ; and just now, 
from Stirling Castle, I have seen by the set- 
ting sun the glorious prospect of the windings 
of Forth through the rich carse of Stirling, 
and skirting the equally rich carse of Falkirk. 
The crops are very strong, but so very late, 
that there is no harvest, except a ridge or two 
perhaps in ten miles, all the way I have tra- 
velled from Edinburgh. 

I left Andrew Bruce and family all well. I 
will be at least three weeks in making my tour 
as I shall return by the coast, and have many 
people to call for. 

My best compliments to Charles, our dear 
kinsman and fellow-saint ; and Messrs. W. and 
H. Parkers. I hope Hughoc is going on. and 
prospering with God and Miss M'Causlin. 

If I could think on any thing sprightly, I 
should let you hear every other post ; but a 
dull, matter-of-fact business, like this scrawl, 
the less and seldomer one writes, the better. 

Among other matters-of-fact I shall add this, 
that I am and ever shall be, 
My dear Sir, 

Your obliged, 

R.B. 



LXXVII. 

£To ffiabtn Hamilton, ^q. 



[It is supposed that the warmth of the lover came in this setter to 
the aid of the imagination of the poet, in his account of Charlotte 
Hamilton.] 

Stirling, 28th August, 1787. 
My dear Sir, 
Here am I on my way to Inverness. I have 
rambled over the rich, fertile carses of Falkirk 
and Stirling, and am delighted with their ap- 

3? 



270 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



pcarance : richly waving cropfl of wheat, barley, 
&c, but no harvest at all yet, except, in one 
or two places, an old wife's ridge. Yesterday 
morning I rode from this town up the mean- 
dering Devon's banks, to pay my respects to some 
Ayrshire folks at Harvieston. After breakfast, 
we made a party to go and see the famous 
Caudron-linn, a remarkable cascade in the 
Devon, about five miles above Harvieston; 
and after spending one of the most pleasant 
days I ever had in my life, I returned to Stir- 
ling in the evening. They are a family, Sir, 
though I had not had any prior tie ; though 
they had not been the brother and sisters 
of a certain generous friend of mine, I would 
never forget them. I am told you have not 
seen them these several years, so you can 
have very little idea of what these young folks 
are now. Your brother is as tall as you are, 
but slender rather than otherwise ; and I have 
the satisfaction to inform you that he is get- 
ting the better of those consumptive symptoms 
which I suppose you know were threatening 
him. His make, and particularly his manner, 
resemble you, but he will still have a finer face. 
(I put in the word still, to please Mrs, Hamil- 
ton.) Good sense, modesty, and at the same 
time a just idea of that respect that man owes 
to man, and has a right in his turn to exact, are 
striking features in his character; and, what 
with me is the Alpha and the Omega, he has a 
heart that might adorn the breast of a poet ! 
Grace has a good figure, and the look of health 
and cheerfulness, but nothing else remarkable 
in her person. I scarcely ever saw so striking 
a likeness as is between her and your little 
Beenie ; the mouth and chin particularly. She 
is reserved at first ; but as we grew better ac- 
quainted, I was delighted with the native frank- 
ness of her manner, and the sterling sense of 
her observation. Of Charlotte I cannot speak 
in common terms of admiration : she is not 
only beautiful but lovely. Her form is elegant; 
her features not regular, but they have the 
smile of sweetness and the settled complacency 
of good nature in the highest degree ; and her 
complexion, now that she has happily recovered 
her wonted health, is equal to Miss Burnet's. 
After the excercise of our riding to the Falls, 
Charlotte was exactly Dr. Donne's mistress: — 



" Her pure and eloquent blood 



Sp ike in her cheeks, and so distinctly wrought, 
That one would almost say her body thought." 

Her eyes are fascinating ; at once expressive 
of good sense, tenderness and a noble mind. 

I do not give you all this account, my good 
Sir, to flatter you. I mean it to reproach you. 
Such relations the first peer in the realm 
might own with pride ; then why do you not 
keep up more correspondence with these so 
nmiable young folks ? I had a thousand ques- 
tions to answer about you. I had to describe 
the little ones with the minuteness of anatomy. 
They were highly delighted when I told them 
that John was so good a boy, and so fine a 



scholar, and that Willie was going on still very 
pretty ; but I have it in commission to tell her 
from them that beauty is a poor silly bauble 
without she be good. Miss Chalmers I had left 
in Edinburgh, but I had the pleasure of meet- 
ing Mrs. Chalmers, only Lady Mackenzie being 
rather a little alarmingly ill of a sore throat 
somewhat marred our enjoyment. 

I shall not be in Ayrshire for four weeks. 
My most respectful compliments to Mrs. Ham- 
ilton, Miss Kennedy, and Doctor Mackenzie. 
I shall probably write him from some stage or 
other. 

I am ever, Sir, 

Yours most gratefully, 

R,B. 



LXXVIII. 

LAIR OF ATHOL 



{ Professor Walker was a native of Ayrshire, and an accomplished 
scholar; he saw Hums often in Edinburgh; he saw him Jt the 
Earl of Athol's on the Bruar ; he visited him too at Dumfries; and 
attcr the copyright of Currie's edition of the poet's works expired, he 
wrote, with much taste and feeling, his life anew, and edited his 
works— what passed under his own observation he related with 
truth and ease.] 



Inverness, hth September, 1787. 
My dear Sir, 

I have just time to write the foregoing, 1 and 
to tell you that it was (at least most part of it) 
the effusion of an half-hour I spent at Bruar. 
I do not mean it was extempore, for I have 
endeavoured to brush it up as well as Mr. 
Nicol's chat and the jogging of the chaise would 
allow. It eases my heart a good deal, as 
rhyme is the coin with which a poet pays his 
debts of honour or gratitude. What I owe to 
the noble family of Athol, of the first kind, 
I shall ever proudly boast ; what I owe of the 
last, so help me God in my hour of need ! I shall 
never forget. 

The " little angel-band ! ,J I declare I prayed 
for them very sincerely to-day at the Fall of 
Fyers. I shall never forget the fine family- 
piece I saw at Blair ; the amiable, the truly 
noble duchess, withrher smiling little seraph in 
her lap, at the head of the table ; the lovely 
"olive plants," as the Hebrew bard finely 
says, round the happy mother : the beautiful 
Mrs. G — ; the lovely sweet Miss C. &c. I wish 
I had the powers of Guido to do them justice ! 
My Lord Duke's kind hospitality — markedly 
kind indeed. Mr. Graham of Fintray's charms 
of conversation — Sir W. Murray's friendship. 
In short, the recollection of all that polite, 
agreeable company raises an honest glow in my 
bosom. 

The Humble Petition of Hruar-witur 



OF RORRRT BURNS. 



271 



LXXIX. 



[The letters of Robert to Gilbert are neither many nor important: 
the latter was a calm considerate, sensible man, with nothing poetic 
in his composition ; he died lately, much and widely respected. J 



Edinburgh, VJth September, 1787- 
My dear Brother, 
I arrived here safe yesterday evening, after 
a tour of twenty-two days, and travelling near 
six hundred miles, windings included. My 
farthest stretch was about ten miles beyond 
Inverness. I went through the heart of the 
Highlands by Crieff, Taymouth, the famous 
seat of Lord Breadalbane, down the Tay, 
among cascades and druidical circles of stones, 
to Dunkeld, a seat of the Duke of Athol ; 
thence across the Tay, and up one of his tribu- 
tary streams to Blair of Athole, another of the 
duke's seats, where I had the honour of spend- 
ing nearly two days with his grace and family; 
thence many miles through a wild country, 
among cliffs gray with eternal snows and gloomy 
savage glens, till I crossed Spey and went down 
the stream through Strathspey, so famous in 
Scottish music ; Badenoch, &c. till I reached 
Grant Castle, where I spent half a day with 
Sir James Grant and family ; and then crossed 
the country for Fort George, but called by the 
way at Cawdor, the ancient seat of Macbeth ; 
there I saw the identical bed, in which tradition 
says king Duncan was murdered : lastly, from 
fort George to Inverness. 

I returned by the coast, through Nairn, 
Forres, and so on, to Aberdeen, thence to 
Stonehive, where James Burness, from Mont- 
rose, met me by appointment. I spent two 
days among our relations, and found our aunts, 
Jean and Isabel, still alive, and hale old women. 
John Cairn, though born the same year with 
our father, walks as vigorously as I can : they 
have had several letters from his son in New 
York. William Brand is likewise a stout old 
fellow; but further particulars I delay till I 
see you, which will be in two or three weeks. 
The rest of my stages are not worth rehearsing : 
warm as I was from Ossian's country, where 
I had seen his very grave, what cared I for 
fishing-towns or fertile carses ? I slept at the 
famous Brodie of Brodie's one night, and dined 
at Gordon Castle next day, with the duke, 
duchess, and family. I am thinking to cause 
my old mare to meet me, by means of John 
Ronald, at Glasgow ; but you shall hear farther 
from me before I leave Edinburgh. My duty 
and many compliments from the north to my 
mother ; and my brotherly compliments to the 
rest. I have been trying for a berth for Wil- 
liam, but am not likely to be successful. Fare- 
well. 

R.R. 



LXXX. 

f£o ffiliw Jftavpret ©Maimer*. 

(NOW MRS. HAY.) 

[To Margaret Chalmers, the youngest daughter of James Chal- 
mers, Esq., of Fingland, it is said that Rurns confided nis affection 
to Charlotte Hamilton: his letters to Miss Chalmers, like those to 
Mrs. Dunlop, are distinguished for their good sense and delicacy a* 
well as freedom | 

Sept. 26, 1787- 
I send Charlotte the first number of the songs; 
I would not wait for the second number ; I hate 
delays in little marks of friendship, as I hate 
dissimulation in the language of the heart. I 
am determined to pay Charlotte a poetic com- 
pliment, if I could hit on some glorious old 
Scotch air, in number second. 1 You will see a 
small attempt on a shred of paper in the book : 
but though Dr. Blacklock commended it very 
highly, I am not just satisfied with it myself. I 
intend to make it a description of some kind : 
the whining cant of love, except in real pas- 
sion, and by a masterly hand, is to me as insuf- 
ferable as the preaching cant of old Father 
Smeaton, whig-minister at Kilinaurs. Darts, 
flames, cupids, loves, graces, and all that far- 
rago, are just a Mauchline * * * * a sense- 
less rabble. 

I got an excellent poetic epistle yesternight 
from the old, venerable author of " Tullochgo- 
rum," " John of Badenyon," &c. I suppose yon 
know he is a clergyman. It is by far the finest 
poetic compliment I ever got. I will send you 
a copy of it. 

I go on Thursday or Friday to Dumfries, to 
wait on Mr. Miller about his farms. — Do tell 
that to Lady Mackenzie, that she may give me 
credit for a little wisdom. " I Wisdom dwell 
with Prudence." What a blessed fire-side ! 
How happy should I be to pass a winter evening 
under their venerable roof ! and smoke a pipe 
of tobacco, or drink water-gruel with them ! 
What solemn, lengthened, laughter-quashing 
gravity of phiz ! What sage remarks on tht» 
good-for-nothing sons and daughters of indis- 
cretion and folly ! And what frugal lessons, as 
we straitened the fire-side circle on the uses o* 
the poker and tongs ! 

Miss N. is very well, and begs to be rem em 
bered in the old way to you. I used all my elo- 
quence, all the persuasive flourishes of the hand, 
and heart-melting modulation of periods in my 
power, to urge her out to Harvieston, but all in 
vain. My rhetoric seems quite to have lost its 
effect on the lovely half of mankind. I have 
seen the day — but that is a "tale of other years." 
— In my conscience I believe that my heart has 
been so oft on fire that it is absolutely vitrified. 
I look on the sex with something like the admi- 
ration with which I regard the starry sky in a 
frosty December night. I admire the beauty of 
the Creator's workmanship ; I am charmed with 
the wild but graceful eccentricity of their mo- 

1 Of the Scots MusiceJ M useiusu 



272 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



tions, and —wish them good night. I mean this 
with respect to a certain passion dontfai eu Pho?i- 
netir d'etre un miserable esclave : as for friendship, 
you and Charlotte have given me pleasure, per- 
manent pleasure, " which the world cannot give, 
nor take away" I hope ; and which will outlast 
the heavens and the earth. 

R. B. 



LXXXI. 

Z o Jfttes J&argaret ©fcalnms. 

[That fine song, " The Banks of the Devon," dedicated to the 
duvrms of Charlotte Hamilton, was enclosed in the following letter.] 

Without date. 

I have been at Dumfries, and at one visit more 
shall be decided about a farm in that country. 
J am rather hopeless in it ; but as my brother is 
an excellent farmer, and is, besides, an exceed- 
ingly prudent, sober man (qualities which are 
only a younger brother's fortune in our family), 
I am determined, if my Dumfries business fail 
me, to return into partnership with him, and at 
our leisure take another farm in the neighbour- 
hood. 

I assure you I look for high compliments from 
you and Charlotte on this very sage instance of 
my unfathomable, incomprehensible wisdom. 
Talking of Charlotte, I must tell her that I have, 
to the best of my power, paid her a poetic com- 
pliment, now completed. The air is admirable : 
true old Highland. It was the tune of a Gaelic 
song, which an Inverness lady sung me when I 
was there ; and I was so charmed with it that I 
begged her to write me a set of it from her sing- 
ing ; for it had never been set before. I am 
fixed that it shall go in Johnson's next number ; 
so Charlotte and you need not spend your pre- 
cious time in contradicting me. I won't say the 
poetry is first-rate ; though I am convinced it is 
very well ; and, what is not always the case with 
compliments to ladies, it is not only sincere, but 
just. 

R. B. 



J, XXXII. 

GORDON CASTLE. 



[James Hoy, librarian of Gordon Castle, was, it is said, the gen- 
tleTnan whom his grace of Gordon sent with a message inviting in 
vain that " obstinate son of Latin prose,'' Nicol, to stop and enjoy 
oiuuelf.] 



Sin, 



Edinburgh, 20th October, 1787. 



I will defend my conduct in giving you this 
trouble, on the best of Christian principles — 
ft Whatsoever ye would that men should do unto 
you, do ye even so unto them." — I shall cer- 
tainly, among my legacies, leave my latest curse 



to that unlucky predicament which hurried-— 
tore me away from Castle Gordon. May that 
obstinate son of Latin prose [Nicol] be curst to 
Scotch mile periods, and damned to seven league 
paragraphs ; while Declension and Conjugation, 
Gender, Number, and Time, under the ragged 
banners of Dissonance and Disarrangement, eter- 
nally rank against him in hostile array. 

Allow me, Sir, to strengthen the small claim I 
have to your acquaintance, by the following re- 
quest. An engraver, James Johnson, in Edin- 
burgh, has, not from mercenary views, but from 
an honest Scotch enthusiasm, set about collect- 
ing all our native songs and setting them to 
music ; particularly those that have never been 
set before. Clarke, the well known musician, 
presides over the musical arrangement, and Drs. 
Beattie and Blacklock, Mr. Tytler of Wood- 
houselee, and your humble servant to the utmost 
of his small power, assist in collecting the old 
poetry, or sometimes for a fine air make a stanza, 
when it has no words. The brats, too tedious 
to mention, claim a parental pang from my bard- 
ship. I suppose it will appear in Johnson's se- 
cond number — the first was published before my 
acquaintance with him. My request is — " Cauld 
Kail in Aberdeen," is one intended for this 
number, and I beg a copy of his Grace of Gor- 
don's words to it, which you were so kind as to 
repeat to me. You may be sure we won't pre» 
fix the author's name, except you like, though I 
look on it as no small merit to this work that the 
names of many of the authors of our old Scotch 
songs, names almost forgotten, will be inserted. 
I do not well know where to write to you — I 
rather write at you ; but if you will be so oblig- 
ing, immediately on receipt of this, as to write 
me a few lines, I shall perhaps pay you in kind, 
though not in quality. Johnson's terms are : — 
each number a handsome pocket volume, to con- 
sist at least of a hundred Scotch songs, with 
basses for the harpsichord, &c. The price to 
subscribers 5s. ; to non- subscribers 6s. He will 
have three numbers I conjecture. 

My direction for two or three weeks will be at 
Mr. William Cruikshank's, St. James's-square, 
New-town, Edinburgh. 

I am, 
Sir, 
Your's to command, 

R. B. 



LXXXIII. 

Vo Iftcb. $o\)\\ j&fctnna;.- 

[The songs of " Tulloahgorum," and " John of Badenyon," have 
made the name of Skinner dear to all lovers of Scottish verse : hewa. 
a man cheerful and pious, nor did the family talent expire with hisi 
his son became Bishop of Aberdeen.] 

Edinburgh, October 25, 1787. 
Reverend and Venerable Sir, 
Accept, in plain dull prose, my most sincere 
thanks for the best poetical compliment I over 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



273 



received. I assure you, Sir, as a poet, you have 
conjured up an airy demon of vanity in my fancy, 
which the best abilities in your other capacity 
would be ill able to lay. I regret, and while I 
live I shall regret, that when I was in the north, 
I had not the pleasure of paying a younger 
brother's dutiful respect to the author of the 
best Scotch song ever Scotland saw — " Tulloch- 
gorum's my delight !" The world may think 
slightingly of the craft of song-making, if they 
please, but, as Job says — " ! that mine adver- 
sary had written a book !" — let them try. There 
is a certain something in the old Scotch songs, a 
wild happiness of thought and expression, which 
peculiarly marks them, not only from English 
songs, but also from the modern efforts of song- 
wrights, in our native manner and language. 
The only remains of this enchantment, these 
spells of the imagination, rests with you. Our 
true brother, Ross of Lochlee, was likewise 
"owre cannie" — a "wild warlock" — but now 
he sings among the " sons of the morning." 

I have often wished, and will certainly endea- 
vour to form a kind of common acquaintance 
among all the genuine sons of Caledonian song. 
The world, busy in low prosaic pursuits, may 
overlook most of us; but "reverence thyself." 
The world is not our peers, so we challenge the 
jury. We can lash that world, and find our- 
selves a very great source of amusement and 
happiness independent of that world. 

There is a work going on in Edinburgh, just 
now, which claims your best assistance. An 
engraver in this town has set about collecting 
and publishing all the Scotch songs, with the 
music, that can be found. Songs in the English 
language, if by Scotchmen, are admitted,, but 
the music must all be Scotch. Drs. Beattie and 
Blacklock are lending a hand, and the first mu- 
sician in town presides over that department. 
I have been absolutely crazed about it, collecting 
old stanzas, and every information respecting 
their origin, authors, &c. &c. This last is but a 
very fragment business ; but at the end of his 
second number — the first is already published— 
a small account will be given of the authors, 
particularly to preserve those of latter times. 
Your three songs, " Tullochgorum," " John of 
Badenyon," and "Ewie wi' the crookit Horn," 
go in this second number. I was determined, 
before I got your letter, to write you, begging 
that you would let me know where the editions 
of these pieces may be found, as you would wish 
them to continue in future times ; and if you 
would be so kind to this undertaking as send 
any songs, of your own or others, that you would 
think proper to publish, your name will be in- 
serted among the other authors, — " Nill ye, will 
ye." One half of Scotland already give your 
songs to other authors. Paper is done. I beg 
to hear from you ; the sooner the better, as I 
leave Edinburgh in a fortnight or three weeks. — 
I am, 

With the warmest sincerity, Sir, 

Your obliged humble servant, — R. B. 



LXXXTV. 

AT GORDON CASTLE, FOCHABERS. 



[In singleness of heart and simplicity of manners James Hoy Is 
said, by one who knew him well, to have rivalled Dominie Sampson 
his love of learning and his scorn of wealth are still remembered to 
his honour.] 



Edinburgh, 6th November, 1787. 
Dear Sir, 

I would have wrote you immediately on ro* 
ceipt of your kind letter, but a mixed impulse 
of gratitude and esteem whispered me that I 
ought to send you something by way of return. 
When a poet owes anything, particularly when 
he is indebted for good offices, the payment that 
usually recurs to him — the only coin indeed in 
which he probably is conversant — is rhyme. 
Johnson sends the books by the fly, as directed, 
and begs me to enclose his most grateful thanks: 
my return I intended should have been one or 
two poetic bagatelles which the world have not 
seen, or, perhaps, for obvious reasons, cannot 
see. These I shall send you before I leave 
Edinburgh. They may make you laugh a little, 
which, on the whole, is no bad way of spending 
one's precious hours and still more precious 
breath: at any rate, they will be, though a 
small, yet a very sincere mark of my respectful 
esteem for a gentleman whose further acquaint- 
ance I should look upon' as a peculiar obliga- 
tion. 

The duke's song, independent totally of his 
dukeship, charms me. There is I know not 
what of wild happiness of thought and expres- 
sion peculiarly beautiful in the old Scottish song 
style, of which his Grace, old venerable Skinner, 
the author of " Tullochgorum," &c, and the late 
Boss, at Lochlee, of true Scottish poetic memory, 
are the only modern instances that I recollect, 
since Bamsay with his contemporaries, and poor 
Bob Fergusson went to the world of deathless 
existence and truly immortal song. The mob 
of mankind, that many-headed beast, would 
laugh at so serious a speech about an old song ; 
but, as Job says, " O that mine adversary had 
written a book !" Those who think that com- 
posing a Scotch song is a trifling business — let 
them try. 

I wish my Lord Duke would pay a proper at- 
tention to the Christian admonition — "Hide not 
your candle under a bushel," but "let joxir 
light shine before men." I could name half a 
dozen dukes that I guess are a devilish deal 
worse employed : nay, I question if there are 
half a dozen better : perhaps there are not half 
that scanty number whom Heaven has favoured 
with the tuneful, happy, and, I will say, glorious 
gift. 

I am, dear Sir, 
Your obliged humble servant. 
R.B, 



•274 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



LXXXV. 

t!Lo Jftv. Robert &fossltc, 



EDINBURGH. 



" 1 set 7011 down," says Burns, elsewhere, to Ainslie, " as the staff 
of my old age, when all my other friends, after a decent show of pity, 
will have forgot me."] 

Edinburgh, Sunday Morning, 
Nov. 23,1787- 

I beg, my dear Sir, you would not make any 
appointment to take us to Mr. Ainslie' s to-night. 
On looking over my engagements, constitution, 
present state of my health, some little vexatious 
soul concerns, &c, I find I can't sup abroad to- 
night. I shall be in to-day till one o'clock if you 
have a leisure hour. 

You will think it romantic when I tell yon, 
that I find the idea of your friendship almost 
necessary to my existence. — You assume a pro- 
per length of face in my bitter hours of blue- 
devilism, and you laugh fully up to my highest 
wishes at my good things. — I don't know upon 
the whole, if you are one of the first fellows in 
God's world, but you are so to me. I tell you 
this just now in the conviction that some in- 
equalities in my temper and manner may per- 
haps sometimes make you suspect that I am not 
so warmly as I ought to be your friend. 

R.B. 



LXXXVI. 
Zts X\)t lEarl of OHeneaint. 



IThe views of Burns were always humble: he regarded a place in 
the excise as a thing worthy of paying court for, both in verse and 
prose.] 

Edinburgh, 1787- 
My Lord, 

I know your lordship will disapprove of my 
ideas in a request I am going to make to you ; 
but I have weighed, long and seriously weighed, 
my situation, my hopes and turn of mind, and 
am fully fixed to my scheme if I can possibly ef- 
fectuate it, I wish to get into the Excise : I am 
told that your lordship's interest will easily pro- 
cure me the grant from the commissioiiers ; and 
your lordship's patronage and goodness, which 
have already rescued me from obscurity, wretch- 
edness, and exile, embolden me to ask that in- 
terest. You have likewise piit it in my power to 
save the little tie of home that sheltered an aged 
mother, two brothers, and three sisters from 
destruction. There, my lord, you have bound 
me over to the highest gratitude. 

My brother's farm is but a wretched lease, 
but I think ho will probably weather out the re- 
maining seven years of it ; and after the assist- 



ance which I have given and will give him, to 
keep the family together, I think, by my guess, 
I shall have rather better than two hundred 
pounds, and instead of seeking, what is almost 
impossible at present to find, a farm that I can 
certainly live by, with so small a stock, I shall 
lodge this sum in a banking-house, a sacred de- 
posit, excepting only the calls of uncommon dis- 
tress or necessitous old age. 

These, my lord, are my views : I have resolved 
from the maturest deliberation ; and now I am 
fixed, I shall leave no stone unturned to carry 
my resolve into execution. Your lordship's pa- 
tronage is the strength of my hopes ; nor have I 
yet applied to any body else. Indeed my heart 
sinks within me at the idea of applying to any 
other of the great who have honoured me with 
their countenance. I am ill qualified to dog the 
heels of greatness with the impertinence of soli- 
citation, and tremble nearly as much at the 
thought of the cold promise as the cold denial ; 
but to your lordship I have not only the honour, 
the comfort, but the pleasure of being 
Your lordship's much obliged 

And deeply indebted humble servant, 
R. B. 



LXXXVII 

^0 3jamcs Ualrgmple, ^$q., 

ORANGEFIELD. 

[James Dalrym pie, Esq., of Orangefield, was agentleman of birth 
and poetic tastes — he interested himself in the fortunes of Burns.] 

Edinburgh, 1787- 
Dear Sir, 

I suppose the devil is so elated with his suc- 
cess with you, that he is determined by a coup 
de main to complete his purposes on you all at 
once, in making you a poet. I broke open the 
letter you sent me ; hummed over the rhymes ; 
and, as I saw they were extempore, said to my- 
self, they were very well ; but Avhen I saw at the 
bottom a name that I shall ever value with 
grateful respect, " I gapit wide, but naething 
spak." I was nearly as much struck as the 
friends of Job, of affliction-bearing memory, 
when they sat down with him seven days and 
seven nights, and spake not a word. 

I am naturally of a superstitious cast, and a3 
soon as my wonder-scared imagination regained 
its consciousness, and resumed its functions, I 
cast about what this mania of yours might por- 
tend. My forboding ideas had the wide stretch 
of possibility ; and several events, great in their 
magnitude, and important in their consequences, 
occurred to my fancy. The downfal of the con- 
clave, or the crushing of the Cork rumps; a 
ducal coronet to Lord George Gordon and the 
Protestant interest; or St. Peter's keys, to 



OF ROBERT 



275 



You want to know how I come on. I am just 
in statu quo, or, not to insult a gentleman with 
my Latin, in "auld use and wont." The noble 
Earl of Gloncairn took mo by the hand to-day, 
and interested himself in my concerns, with a 
goodness like that benevolent Being, whose image 
lie so richly bears. Ho is a stronger proof of the 
immortality of the soul, than any that philosophy 
ever produced. A mind like his can never die. 
Let the worshipful squire II. L., or the reverend 
Mass J. M. go into their primitive nothing. At 
best, they are but ill-digested lumps of chaos, 
only one of them strongly tinged with bitumin- 
ous particles and sulphureous effluvia. But my 
noble patron, eternal as the heroic swell of mag- 
nanimity, and the generous throb of benevolence, 
shall look on with princely eye at " the war of 
elements, the wreck of matter, and the crush of 
worlds. " 

R. B. 



LXXXVIII. 



ADVOCATE. 



[The verses enclosed were written on the death of the Lord Presi- 
dent Dundas, at the suggestion of Charles Hay, Esq., advocace, af- 
terwards a judge, under the title of Lord Newton.J 



Sir, 
The enclosed poem was written in consequence 
of your suggestion, last time I had the pleasure 
of seeing you. It cost me an hour or two of 
next morning's sleep, but did not please me ; so 
it lay by, an ill-digested effort, till the other 
day that I gave it a critic brush. These kind 
of subjects are much hackneyed ; and, besides, 
the wailings of the rhyming tribe over the ashes 
of the great are cursedly suspicious, and out of 
all character for sincerity. These ideas damped 
my muse's fire; however, I have done the best 
I could, and, at all events, it gives me an oppor- 
tunity of declaring that I have the honour to be, 
Sir, your obliged humble servant, 

R. B. 



LXXXIX. 



[This letter appeared for the first time in the " Letters to Clarinda," 
a little work which was speedily suppressed — it is, on the whole, a 
sort of Corydon and Phillis affair, with here and there expressions too 
graphic, and passages over-warm. Who the lady was is not known— 
w known only to one.] 

Saturday Noon, No. 2, St. James's Square, 
New Town, Edinburgh. 
Here have I sat, my dear Madam, in the 
stony altitude of perplexed study for fifteen vex- 



atious minutes, my head askew, bending ovei 
the intended card ; my fixed eye insensible to 
the very light of day poured around ; my pendu- 
lous goose-feather, loaded with ink, hanging over 
the future letter, all for the important purpose 
of writing a complimentary card to accompany 
your trinket. 

Compliment is such a miserable Greenland ex- 
pression, lies at such a chilly polar distance from 
the torrid zone of my constitution, that I can- 
not for the very soul of me, use it to any per- 
son for whom 1 have the twentieth part of the 
esteem every one must have for you who knows 
you. 

As I leave town in three or four days, I can 
give myself the pleasure of calling on you only 
for a minute. Tuesday evening, some time about 
seven or after, I shall wait on you for your fare- 
well commands. 

The hinge of your box I put into the hands 
of the proper connoisseur. The broken glass, 
likewise, went under review ; but deliberative 
wisdom thought it would too much endanger the 
whole fabric. 

I am, dear Madam, 

With all sincerity of enthusiasm, 
Your very obedient servant, 

R. B. 



XC. 

SIo J&teg (palmer jj. 



[Some dozen or so, it is said, of the most beautiful letters that 
Burns ever wrote, and dedicated to the beauty of Charlotte Ham- 
ilton, were destroyed by that lady, in a moment when anger was too 
strong for reflection.] 



Edinburgh, Nov. 21, 1787. 

I have one vexatious fault to the kindly- 
welcome, well-filled sheet which I owe to your 
and Charlotte's goodness, — it contains too much 
sense, sentiment, and good-spelling. It is im- 
possible that even you two, whom I declare to 
my God I will give credit for any degree of ex- 
cellence the sex are capable of attaining, it is 
impossible you can go on to correspond at that 
rate ; so like those who, Shenstone says, retire 
because they make a good speech, I shall, after 
a few letters, hear no more of you. I insist that 
you shall write whatever comes first : what you see, 
what you read, what you hear, what you admire, 
what you dislike, trifles, bagatelles, nonsense ; 
or to fill up a corner, e'en put down a laugh at 
full length. Now none of your polite hints 
about flattery ; I leave that to your lovers, if 
you have or shall have any ; though, thank 
heaven, I have found at last two girls who can 
be luxuriantly happy in their own minds and 
with one another, without that commonly ne- 
cessary appendage to female bliss — a lover. 

Charlotte and you are just two favourite rest- 
ing-places for my soul in her wanderings 



276 



ENEKAL CORRESPONDENCE 



through the weary, thorny -wilderness of this 
world. God knows I am ill-fitted for the strug- 
gle : I glory in being a Poet, and I want to 
be thought a Avise man — I would fondly be 
generous, and I wish to be rich. After all, I am 
afraid I am a lost subject. " Some folk hae a 
hautle o' fauts, an' I'm but a ne'er-do-weel." 

Afternoon, — To close the melancholy reflec- 
tions at the end of last sheet, I shall just add a 
piece of devotion commonly known in Carrick 
by the title of the "Wabster's grace:" — 

" Some say we're thieves, and e'en sae are we, 
Some say we lie, and e'en sae do we ! 
Gude forgie us, and I hope sae will he ! 
Up and to your looms, lads." 

R. B. 



XCL 



[The " Ochel-Hills," which the poet promises in this letter, is a 
song, beginning, 

" Where braving angry winter's storms 
The lofty Ochels rise," 

written in honour of Margaret Chalmers, and published along with 
the ■« Banks of the Devon," in Johnson's Musical Museum.] 



Edinburgh, Dec. 12, 1787. 

I am here under the care of a surgeon, with a 
bruised limb extended on a cushion; and the 
tints of my mind vying with the livid horror 
preceding a midnight thunder-storm. A drun- 
ken coachman was the cause of the first, and 
incomparably the lightest evil misfortune, bo- 
dily constitution, hell, and myself have formed 
a " quadruple alliance" to guarantee the other. 
I got my fall on Saturday, and am getting slowly 
better. 

I have taken tooth and nail to the Bible, and 
am got through the five books of Moses, and 
half way in Joshua. It is really a glorious book. 
I sent for my book-binder to-day, and ordered 
him to get me an octavo Bible in sheets, the 
best paper and print in town ; and bind it with 
all the elegance of his craft. 

I would give my best song to my worst enemy, 
I mean the merit of making it, to have you and 
Charlotte by me. You are angelic creatures, 
and would pour oil and wine into my wounded 
spirit. 

I enclose you a proof copy of the " Banks of 
the Devon," which present with my best wishes 
to Charlotte. The " Ochel-hills" you shall pro- 
bably have next week for yourself. None of 
your fine speeches ! 

R.B. 



XCII. 
Co MHz palmer*. 



[The eloquent hypochondriasm of the concluding paragraph o 
this letter, called forth the commendation of Lord Jeffrey, when he 
criticised Cromek's Reliques of Burns, in the Edinburgh Review.] 



Edinburgh, Dec. 19, 1787. 

I begin this letter in answer to yours of the 
17th current, which is not yet cold since I read 
it. The atmosphere of my soul is vastly clearer 
than when I wrote you last. For the first time, 
yesterday I crossed the room on crutches. It 
would do your heart good to see my bardship, 
not on my poetic, but on my oaken stilts ; throw- 
ing my best leg with an air ! and with as much 
hilarity in my gait and countenance, as a May 
frog leaping across the newly harrowed ridge, 
enjoying the fragrance of the refreshed earth, 
after the long-expected shower ! 

I can't say I am altogether at my ease when 
I see anywhere in my path that meagre, squalid, 
famine-faced spectre, Poverty ; attended, as he 
always is, by iron-fisted oppression, and leering 
contempt ; but I have sturdily withstood his 
buffetings many a hard-laboured day already, 
and still my motto is — I dare ! My worst enemy 
is moi-meme. I lie so miserably open to the in- 
roads and incursions of a mischievous, light- 
armed, well-mounted banditti, under the ban- 
ners of imagination, whim, caprice, and passion : 
and the heavy-armed veteran regulars of wis- 
dom, prudence, and forethought move so very, 
very slow, that I am almost in a state of per- 
petual warfare, and, alas ! frequent defeat. 
There are just two creatures I would envy, a 
horse in his wild state traversing the forests of 
Asia, or an oyster on some of the desert shores 
of Europe. The one has not a wish without en- 
joyment, the other has neither wish nor fear. 

R B. 



XCIII. 
Co j&iv ^o|)n 38tf»tefoorl>. 



[The Whitefoords of Whitefoord, interested themselves In all mat- 
ters connected with literature : the power of the family, unluckily 
for Burns, was not equal to their taste.] 



Sir, 



Edinburgh, December, 1787* 



Mr. Mackenzie, in Mauchline, my very 
warm and worthy friend, has informed me how 
much you are pleased to interest yourself in my 
fate as a man, and (what to me is incomparably 
dearer) my fame as a poet. I have. Sir, in one 
or two instances, been patronized by those of 
your character in life, when I was introduced tG 
their notice by ***** friends to them, and ho- 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



W 



nourcd acquaintances to me ! but you are the 
first gentleman in the country whose benevo- 
lence and goodness cf heart has interested him- 
self for me, unsolicited and unknown. I am 
not master enough of the etiquetto of these mat- 
ters to know, nor did I stay to inquire, whe- 
ther formal duty bade, or cold propriety disal- 
lowed, my thanking you in this manner, as 
I am convinced, from the light in which you 
kindly view me, that you will do me the jus- 
tice to believe this letter is not the manoeuvre 
of the needy, sharping author, fastening on 
those in upper life, who honour him with a 
little notice of him or his works. Indeed, 
the situation of poets is generally such, to 
a proverb, as may, in some measure, palliate 
that prostitution of heart and talents, they have 
at times been guilty of. I do not think pro- 
digality is, by any means, a necessary concom- 
itant of a poetic turn, but I believe a careless 
indolent attention to economy, is almost inse- 
parable from it; then there must be in the heart 
of every bard of Nature's making, a certain mo- 
dest sensibility, mixed with a kind of pride, 
that will ever keep him out of the way of those 
windfalls of fortune which frequently light on 
hardy impudence and foot-licking servility. It 
is not easy to imagine a more helpless state than 
his whose poetic fancy unfits him for the world, 
and whose character as a scholar gives him some 
pretensions to the politesse of life — yet is as poor 
as I am. 

For my part, I thank Heaven my star has 
been kinder; learning never elevated my ideas 
above the peasant's shed, and I have an inde- 
pendent fortune at the plough-tail. 

I was surprised to hear that any one who pre- 
tended in the least to the manners of the gentle- 
man, should be so foolish, or worse, as to stoop 
to traduce the morals of such a one as I am, and 
so inhumanly cruel, too, as to meddle with that 
late most unfortunate, unhappy part of my story. 
With a tear of gratitude, I thank you, Sir, for 
the warmth with which you interposed in be- 
half of my conduct. I am, I acknowledge, too 
frequently the sport of whim, caprice, and pas- 
sion, but reverence to God, and integrity to my 
fellow-creatures, I hope I shall ever preserve. 
I have no return, Sir, to make you for your 
goodness but one — a return which, I am per- 
suaded, will not be unacceptable — the honest, 
warm wishes of a grateful heart for your hap- 
piness, and every one of that lovely flock, who 
stand to you in a filial relation. If ever calumny 
aim the poisoned shaft at them, may friendship 
be by to ward the blow ! 

FwB. 



XCIV. 

ON READING HEIl POEM OF THE SLAVE-TRADE. 



[The name and merits of Miss Williams are widely known 
nnr is it a small honour to her muse that her tender song of " Evan 
Banks" was imputed to Burns by Cromek : other editors sine* 
have continued to include it In his works, though Sir Walter Scott 
named the true author.] 



Edinburgh, Dec. 17^7- 
I know very little of scientific criticism, so all 
I can pretend to in that intricate art is merely 
to note, as I read along, what passages strike 
mo as being uncommonly beautiful, and where 
the expression seems to be perplexed or faulty. 
The poem opens finely. There are none of 
these idle prefatory lines which one may skip 
over before one comes to the subject. Verses 
9th and 10th in particular, 

" Where oceans unseen bound 
Leaves a drear world of waters round," 

are truly beautiful. The simile of the hurri- 
cane is likewise fine ; and, indeed, beautiful as 
the poem is, almost all the similes rise deci- 
dedly above it. From verse 31st to verse 50th 
is a pretty eulogy on Britain. Verse 36th, " That 
foul drama deep with wrong," is nobly expres- 
sive. Verse 46th, I am afraid, is rather un- 
worthy of the rest ; " to dare to feel" is an idea 
that I do not altogether like. The contrast of 
valour and mercy, from the 36th verse to the 
50th, is admirable. 

Either my apprehension is dull, or there is 
something a little confused in the apostrophe of 
Mr. Pitt. Verse 55th is the antecedent to 
verses 57th and 58th, but in verse 58th the con- 
nexion seems ungrammatical : — 



With no gradations mark'd their flight, 
But rose at once to glory's height." 

Ris'n should be the word instead of rose. Try 
it in prose. Powers, — their flight marked by 
no gradations, but [the same powers] risen at 
once to the height of glory. Likewise, verse 
53rd, " For this," is evidently meant to lead 
on the sense of the verses 59th, 60th, 61st, and 
62nd : but let us try how the thread of connex- 
ion runs, — 

" For this 

The deeds of mercy, that embrace 
A distant sphere, an alien race, 
Shall virtue's lips record and claim 
The fairest honours of thy name." 

I beg pardon if I misapprehended the matter, 
but this appears to me the only imperfect pas- 
sage in the poem. The comparison of the sun 
beam is fine. 

The compliment of the Duke of Richmond is 

4 b 



278 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



I hope, as just as it is certainly elegant. The 
thought, 



Sends from her unsullied source, 

The etenis of thought their purest force," 

is exceeding beautiful. The idea, from verse 
81st to the 85th, that the " blest decree" is like 
the beams of morning ushering in the glorious 
day of liberty, ought not to pass unnoticed or 
unapplauded. From verse 85th to verse 108th, 
is an animated contrast between the unfeeling 
selfishness of the oppressor on the one hand, 
and the misery of the captive on the other. 
Verse 88th might perhaps be amended thus : 
" Nor ever quit her narrow maze." "We are 
said to pass a bound, but we quit a maze. Verse 
100th is exquisitely beautiful : — 

" They, whom wasted blessings tire." 

Verse 110th is I doubt a clashing of metaphors ; 
"to load a span" is, I am afraid, an unwarrantable 
expression. In verse 114th," Cast the universe 
in shade," is a fine idea. From the 115th verse 
to the 142nd is a striking description of the 
wrongs of the poor African. Verse 120th, 
" The load of unremitted pain, 1 ' is a remarkable, 
strong expression. The address to the advo- 
cates for abolishing the slave-trade, from verse 
143rd to verse 208th is animated with the true 
life of genius. The picture of oppression, — 

" While she links her impious chain, 
And calculates the price of pain ; 
Weighs agony in sordid scales, 
And marks if death or life prevails," — 

is nobly executed. 

What a tender idea is in verse 108th ! Indeed, 
that whole description of home may vie with 
Thomson's description of home, somewhere in 
the beginning of his Autumn. I do not remem- 
ber to have seen a stronger expression of mis- 
ery than is contained in these verses : — 



" Condemned, severe e: 
When all is fled that life can give." 

The comparison of our distant joys to distant 
objects is equally original and striking. 

The character and manners of the dealer in 
the infernal traffic is a well done though a hor- 
rid picture. I am not sure how far introducing 
the sailor was right; for though the sailor's 
common characteristic is generosity, yet, in this 
case, he is certainly not only an unconcerned 
witness, but, in some degree, an efficient agent 
in the business. Verse 224th is a nervous .... 
expressive — " The heart convulsive anguish 
breaks." The description of the captive wretch 
when he arrives in the West Indies, is carried 
on with equal spirit. The thought that the op- 
pressor's sorrow on seeing the slave pine, is 
like the butcher's regret when his destined 
iamb dies a natural death, is exceedingly fine. 

I am got so much into the cant of criticism, 
that I begin to be afraid lest I have nothing ex- 
cept the cant of it ; and instead of elucidating 



my author, am only benighting myself. For 
this reason, I will not pretend to go through the 
whole poem. Some few remaining beautiful 
lines, however, I cannot pass over. Verse 280th 
is the strongest description of selfishness I ever 
saw. The comparison of verses 285th and 
28Gth is new and fine ; and the line, " Your 
arms to penury you lend," is excellent. In 
verse 317th, "like" should certainly be "as" 
or " so ;" for instance — 

" His sway the hardened bosom leads 
To cruelty's remorseless deeds ; 
As (or, so) the blue lightning when it springs 
With fury on its livid wings, 
Darts on the goal with rapid force, 
Nor heeds that ruin marks its course." 

If you insert the word " like" where I have 
placed "as," you must alter " darts" to dart- 
ing," and " heeds" to " heeding," in order to 
make it grammar. A tempest is a favourite 
subject with the poets, but I do not remember 
anything even in Thomson's Winter superior to 
your verses from the 347th to the 351st. In- 
deed, the last simile, beginning with " Fancy 
may dress," &c, and ending with the 350th 
verse, is, in my opinion, the most beautiful pas- 
sage in the poem ; it would do honour to the 
greatest names that ever graced our profession. 

I will not beg your pardon, Madam, for these 
strictures, as my conscience tells me, that for 
once in my life I have acted up to the duties of 
a Christian, in doing as I would be done by. 

KB, 



xcv. 



[Richard Brown was the " hapless son of misfortune," alluded to bj 
Burns in his biographical letter to Dr. Moore : by fortitude and pru 
dence he retrieved his fortunes, and lived much respectedin Greenock . 
to a good old age. He said Burns had little to learn in matters of 
levity, when he became acquainted with him.] 



Edinburgh, 30th Dec. 1787. 
Mr dear Sir, 
I have met with few things in life which 
have given me more pleasure than Fortune's 
kindness to you since those days in which we 
met in the vale of misery ; as I can honestly 
say, that I never knew a man who more truly 
deserved it, or to whom my heart more truly 
wished it. I have been much indebted since 
that time to your story and sentiments for steel- 
ing my mind against evils, of which I have had 
a pretty decent share. My will-o'wisp fate 
you know : do you recollect a Sunday we spent 
together in Eglinton woods ! You told me, on 
my repeating some verses to you, that you won- 
dered I could resist the temptation of sending 



OF ROHERT BURNS. 



270 



verses of such merit to a magazine. It was 
from this remark I derived that idea of my own 
pieces, which encouraged me to endeavour at 
the character of a poet. I am happy to hear 
that you will be two or three months at home. 
As soon as a bruised limb will permit me, I 
shall return to Ayrshire, and we shall meet; 
" and faith, I hope we'll not sit dumb, nor yet 
cast out t" 

I have much to tell you " of men, their man- 
ners, and their ways," perhaps a little of the 
other sex. Apropos, I beg to be remembered 
to Mrs. Brown. There I doubt not, my dear 
friend, but you have found substantial happiness. 
I expect to find you something of an altered but 
not a different man ; the wild, bold, generous 
young fellow composed into the steady affection- 
ate husband, and the fond careful parent. For 
me I am just the same will-o'-wisp being I used 
to be. About the first and fourth quarters of the 
moon, I generally set in for the trade-wind of 
wisdom ; but about the full and change, I am 
the luckless victim of mad tornadoes, which 
blow me into chaos. Almighty love still reigns 
and revels in my bosom ; and I am at this mo- 
ment ready to hang myself for a young Edin- 
burgh widow, who has wit and wisdom more 
murderously fatal than the assassinating stiletto 
of the Sicilian banditti, or the poisoned arrow of 
the savage African. My highland dirk, that used 
to hang beside my crutches, I have gravely re- 
moved into a neighbouring closet, the key of 
which I cannot command in case of spring- 
tide paroxysms. You may guess of her wit by 
the following verses, which she sent me the 
other day : — 

Talk not of love, it gives me pain, 

For love has been my foe ; 
He bound me with an iron chain, 
And plunged me deep in woe ! 

But friendsnip's pure and lasting joys, 

My heart was formed to prove, — 
There, welcome win and wear the prize, 

But never talk of love ! 

Your friendship much can make me blest— 

O why that bliss destroy ? 
Why urge the odious one request, 

You know I must deny ?"i 

My best compliments to our friend Allan. 
Adieu ! 

R. B. 



» See song: 186, in Johnson's Musical Museum, Euros altered the 
tvro lass lines, and added a stanza: 

Why urge the only one request - 
You know I will deny ! 

Your thought if love must harbour there, 

Conceal it in that thought; 
Nor cause me from axy bosom tear 

The very friend I souglvt, 



XCVI. 

&o ffiaMn ?i?amtlton. 

[The Ilamiltons of the West continue to love the memory of 
Burns: the old arm-chair in which the bard sat, when he visited 
N.-insc Tinnocks, Mas lately presented to the mason lodge of Mauch- 
line, by Dr Hamilton, the "wee curly Johnnie" of the Dedica- 
tion.] 

[Edinburgh, Dec. 1787-] 
My dear Sir, 
It is indeed with the highest pleasure that I 
congratulate you on the return of days of ease 
and nights of pleasure, after the horrid hours of 
misery in which I saw you suffering existence 
when last in Ayrshire ; I seldom pray for any 
body, " I'm baith dead-sweer and wretched ill 
o't ;" but most fervently do I beseech the Power 
that directs the world, that you may live long 
and be happy, but live no longer than you are 
happy. It is needless for me to advise you 
to have a reverend care of your health. I 
know you will make it a point never at one 
time to drink more than a pint of wine, (I 
mean an English pint,) and that you will never 
be witness to more than one bowl of punch at a 
time, and that cold drams you will never more 
taste ; and, above all things, I am convinced, 
that after drinking perhaps boiling punch, you 
will never mount your horse and gallop home 
in a chill late hour. Above all things, as I 
understand you are in habits of intimacy with 
that Boanerges of gospel powers, Father Auld, 
be earnest with him that he will wrestle in 
.prayer for you, that you may see the vanity of 
vanities in trusting to, or even practising the 
casual moral works of charity, humanity, gene- 
rosity and forgiveness of things, which you prac- 
tised so flagrantly that it was evident you de- 
lighted in them, neglecting, -or perhaps pro- 
fanely despising, the wholesome doctrine of 
faith without works, the only anchor of sal- 
vation. A hymn of thanksgiving would, in 
my opinion, be highly becoming from you at 
present, and in my zeal for your well-being, I 
earnestly press on you to be diligent in chaunt- 
ing over the two inclosed pieces of sacred poesy. 
My best compliments to Mrs. Hamilton and 
Miss Kennedy. Yours in the L — d, 

R. B 



XCVII. 

tEo 0ti$$ Chalmers. 



[The blank which takes the place of the name of the " Gentleman 
in mind and manners," of this letter, cannot now be filled up, nor 
is it much matter, the acquaintance of such a man as the poet de- 
scribes few or none would desire.] 

Edinburgh, Dec. 1787. 

My dear Madam, 

I just now have read yours. The poetic 

compliments I pay cannot be misunderstood. 

They are neither of them so particular as to 

point you out to the world at large ; and the 



230 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



circle of your acquaintances will allow all I have 
said. Besides, I have complimented you chiefly, 
almost solely, on your mental charms. Shall I 
be plain with you ? I will ; so look to it. Per- 
sonal attractions, madam, you have much above 
par ; wit, understanding, and worth, you pos- 
sess in the first class. This is a cursed flat way 
of telling you these truths, but let me hear no 
more of your sheepish timidity. I know the 
world a little. I know what they will say of 
my poems ; by second sight I suppose ; for I 
am seldom out in my conjectures ; and you may 
believe me, my dear madam, I would not run 
any risk of hurting you by any ill-judged com- 
pliment. I wish to show to the world, the odds 
between a poet's friends and those of simple 
prosemen. More for your information, both the 
pieces go in. One of them, (< "Where braving 
angry winter's storms," is already set — the tune 
is Neil Gow's Lamentation for A bercarny ; the 
other is to be set to an old Highland air in 
Daniel Dow's collection of ancient Scots music ; 
the name is "Ha a Chaillich air mo Dheith." My 
treacherous memory has forgot every circum- 
stance about Les Incas, only I think you men- 
tioned them as being in Creech's possession. I 
shall ask him about it. I am afraid the song of 
" Somebody" will come too late — as I shall, for 
certain, leave town in a week for Ayrshire, and 
from that to Dumfries, but there my hopes are 
slender. I leave my direction in town, so any 
thing, wherever I am, will reach me. 

I saw your's to ; it is not too severe, 

nor did he take it amiss. On the contrary, like 
a whipt spaniel, he talks of being with you in 

the Christmas days. Mr. has given him 

the invitation, and he is determined to accept 
of it. selfishness ! he owns, in his sober mo- 
ments, that from his own volatility of inclina- 
tion, the circumstances in which he is situated, 
and his knowledge of his father's disposition ; — 
the whole affair is chimerical — yet he will gratify 
an idle penchant at the enormous, cruel expense, 
of perhaps ruining the peace of the very woman 
for whom he professes the generous passion of 
love ! He is a gentleman in his mind and man- 
ners — tant pis ! He is a volatile school-boy — the 
heir of a man's fortune who well knows the 
value of two times two ! 
Perdition seize them and their fortunes, before 

they should make the amiable, the lovely , 

the derided object of their purse-proud contempt ! 

I am doubly happy to hear of Mrs. 's 

recovery, because I really thought all was over 
with her. There are days of pleasure yet await- 
ing her : 

" As I came in by Glenap, 
I met with an aged woman : 
She bad me cheer up my heart, 
For the best o' my days was comin'." 

This day will decide my affairs with Creech. 
Things are, like myself, not what they ought to 
be ; yet better than what they appear to be. 

" Heaven's sovereign saves all beings but himself— 
That hideous sight— a naked human heart." 

Farewell ! remember me to Charlotte. It. B. 



XCVIII 



[The poet alludes in this letter, as in some before, toahurtwhk* * 
got in one of his excursions in the neighbourhood of Edinburgh. , 



Edinburgh, January 21, 1788. 

After six weeks' confinement, I am begin- 
ning to walk across the room. They have been 
six horrible weeks ; anguish and low spirits 
made me unfit to read, write, or think. 

I have a hundred times wished that one 
could resign life as an officer resigns a com- 
mission : for I would not take in any poor, ig- 
norant wretch, by selling out. Lately I was a 
sixpenny private ; and, God knows, a miserable 
soldier enough ; now I march to the cam- 
paign, a starving cadet : a little more conspicu- 
ously wretched. 

I am ashamed of all this; for though I do 
want bravery for the warfare of life, I could 
wish, like some other soldiers, to have as much 
fortitude or cunning as to dissemble or conceal 
my cowardice. 

As soon as I can bear the journey, which will 
be, I suppose, about the middle of next week, I 
leave Edinburgh : and soon after I shall pay 
my grateful duty at Dunlop-House. 

R.B. 



XCIX 
%o 0Lt&. IBunlop. 



[The levity with which Burns sometimes spoke of things sacred, 
had been obliquely touched upon by his good and anxious friend 
Mrs. Dunlop: he pleads guilty of folly, but not of irreligion.J 



Edinburgh, February 12, 1788. 
Some things in your late letters hurt me : not 
that you say them, but that you mistake me. Reli- 
gion, my honoured Madam, has not only been all 
my life my chief dependence, but my dearest en- 
joyment. I have, indeed, been the luckless 
victim of wayward follies ; but, alas ! I have 
ever been " more fool than knave." A mathe- 
matician without religion is a probable charac 
ter ; an irreligious poet is a monster. 

KB. 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



281 



®o iljt &eb 3)o&n jk&hmn-.. 



[When Burns undertook to supply Johnson with songs for the 
Musical Museum, he laid all the bards of Scotland under contribu- 
tion, and Skinner among: the number, of whose talents, as well as 
tfvjseof Ross, author of Helenore, he was a great admirer. ] 



Edinburgh, 14th February, 1788. 

Reverend and dear Sir, 

I have been a cripple now near three months, 
though I am getting vastly better, and have 
been very much hurried beside,, or else I would 
have wrote you sooner. I must beg your par- 
don for the epistle you sent me appearing in 
the Magazine. I had given a copy or two to 
some of my intimate friends, but did not know 
of the printing of it till the publication of the 
Magazine. However, as it does great honour 
to us both, you will forgive it. 

The second volume of the songs I mentioned 
to you in my last is published to-day. I send 
you a copy which I beg you will accept as a 
mark of the veneration I have long had, and 
shall ever have, for your character, and of the 
claim I make to your continued acquaintance. 
Your songs appear in the third volume, with 
your name in the index ; as, I assure you, Sir, 
I have heard your " Tullochgorum," particu- 
larly among our west-country folks, given to 
many different names, and most commonly to 
the immortal author of " The Minstrel," who, 
indeed, never wrote any thing superior to " Gie's 
a sang, Montgomery cried." Your brother has 
promised me your verses to the Marquis of 
Huntley's reel, which certainly deserve a place 
in the collection. My kind host, Mr. Cruik- 
shank, of the High-school here, and said to be 
one of the best Latins in this age, begs me to 
make you his grateful acknowledgments for the 
entertainment he has got in a Latin publication 
of yours, that I borrowed for him from your ac- 
quaintance and much respected friend in this 
place, the Reverend Dr. Webster. Mr. Cruik- 
shank maintains that you write the best Latin 
since Buchanan. I leave Edinburgh to-morrow, 
but shall return in three weeks. Your song 
you mentioned in your last, to the tune of 
"Dumbarton Drums," and the other, which you 
say was done by a brother by trade of mine, a 
ploughman, I shall thank you much for a copy 
of each. I am ever, Reverend Sir, with the 
most respectful esteem and sincere veneration, 
yours, 

R.B. 



CI. 

*&q IfttchnrtJ 33rofon. 



[The letters of Burns to Brown, and Smith, and Richmond, t-^-i 
others of his west-country friends, written when he was in thefirer 
flush of fame, show that he did not forget humble men, who antici- 
pated the public in perceiving his merit.] 



Edinburgh, February 15, 1788. 
My dear Friend, 
I received yours with the greatest pleasure. 
I shall arrive at Glasgow on Monday evening ; 
and beg, if possible, you will meet me on Tues- 
day. I shall wait you Tuesday all day. I shall 
be found at Davies', Black Bull inn. I am hur- 
ried, as if hunted by fifty devils, else I should go 
to Greenock ; but if you cannot possibly come, 
write me, if possible, to Glasgow, on Monday ; 
or direct to me at Mossgicl by Mauchline ; and 
name a day and place in Ayrshire, within a fort- 
night from this date, where I may meet you. I 
only stay a fortnight in Ayrshire, and return 
to Edinburgh. I am ever, my dearest friend, 
yours, 

R. B. 



CII. 



Zo 0lx$, ftcge, of iftUrabocfe. 



[Mrs. Rose of Kilravock, a lady distinguished by the elegance of 
her manners, as well as by her talentt. was long remembered by 
Burns : she procured for him snatches of old songs, and copies of 
northern melodies; to her we owe the preservation of some fine airs 
as well as the inspiration of some fine lyrics.l 



Edinburgh, February \7th, 17£0. 
Madam, 
You are much indebted to some indispensable 
business I have had on my hands, otherwise my 
gratitude threatened such a return for your 
obliging favour as would have tired your pati- 
ence. It but poorly expresses my feelings to say, 
that I am sensible of your kindness : it may be 
said of hearts such as yours is, and such, I hope, 
mine is, much more justly than Addison applies 
it,— 

" Some souls by instinct to eaeh other turn." 

There was something in my reception at Kil- 
ravock so different from the cold, obsequious, 
dancing-school bow of politeness, that it almost 
got into my head that friendship had occupied 
her ground without the intermediate march of 
acquaintance. I wish I could transcribe, or 
rather transfuse into language, the glow of my 
heart when I read your letter. My ready fancy, 
with colours more mellow than life itself, painted 
the beautifully wild scenery of Kilravock — the 
venerable grandeur of the castle — the spreading 
woods — the winding river, gladly leaving his 
unsightly, heathy source, and lingering with ap- 
parent delight as he passes the fairy walk at the 

4 c 



282 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



bottom of the garden ; — your late distressful 
anxieties— your present enjoyments — your dear 
little angel, the pride of your hopes; — my aged 
friend, venerable in worth and years, whose 
loyalty and other virtues will strongly entitle 
her to the support of the Almighty Spirit here, 
and his peculiar favour in a happier state of ex- 
istence. You cannot imagine, Madam, how 
much such feelings delight me; they are my 
dearest proofs of my own immortality. Should 
I never revisit the north, as probably I never 
will, nor again see your hospitable mansion, 
were I, some twenty years hence, to see your 
little fellow's name making a proper figure in a 
newspaper paragraph, my heart would bound 
with pleasure. 

I am assisting a friend in a collection of Scot- 
tish songs, set to their proper tunes ; every air 
worth preserving is to be included : among others 
I have given " Morag," and some few Highland 
airs which pleased me most, a dress which will 
be more generally known, though far, far inferior 
in real merit. As a small mark of my grateful 
esteem, I beg leave to present you with a copy 
of the work, as far as it is printed ; the Man of 
Feeling, that first of men, has promised to trans- 
mit it by the first opportunity. 

I beg to be remembered most respectfully to 
my venerable friend, and to your little Highland 
chieftain. When you see the " two fair spirits 
of the hill," at Kildrummie, 1 tell them that I 
have done myself the honour of setting myself 
down as one of their admirers for at least twenty 
years to come, consequently they must look 
upon me as an acquaintance for the same period; 
but, as the Apostle Paul says, " this I ask of 
grace, not of debt." 

1 have the honour to be, Madam, &c., 

R.B. 



cm. 

^o Muhnrti Proton. 



[While Bums was confined to his lodgings by his maimed limb, 
he beguiled the time and eased the pain by composing the Clarinda 
epistles, writing songs for Johnson, and letters to his companions.] 



Mossgiel, 2ith February, 1788. 

My dear Sir, 
I cannot get the proper direction for my 
friend in Jamaica, but the following will do : — 
To Mr. Jo. Hutchinson, at Jo. Brownrigg's, 
Esq., care of Mr. Benjamin Henriquez, merchant, 
Orange-street, Kingston. I arrived here, at my 
brother 1 s, only yesterday, after fighting my way 
through Paisley and Kilmarnock, against those 
old powerful foes of mine, the devil, the world, 
and the flesh — so terrible in the fields of dissipa- 
tion. I have met with few incidents in my life 



» Mks Sophia Urodie, of L , and Miss Hose, of Kilnvock. 



which gave me so much pleasure as meeting yon 
in Glasgow. There is a time of life beyond 
which we cannot form a tie worth the name of 
friendship, " O youth ! enchanting stage, pro- 
fusely blest." Life is a fairy scene: almost all 
that deserves the name of enjoyment or pleasure 
is only a charming delusion ; and in comes re- 
pining age in all the gravity of hoary wisdom, 
and wretchedly chases away the bewitching 
phantom. When I think of life, I resolve to 
keep a strict look-out in the course of economy, 
for the sake of worldly convenience and inde- 
pendence of mind ; to cultivate intimacy with a 
few of the companions of youth, that they may 
be the friends of age ; never to refuse my liquor- 
ish humour a handful of the sweetmeats of life, 
when they come not too dear ; and, for fu- 
turity, — 

" The present moment is our aim, 
The neist we never saw !" * 

How like you my philosophy ? Give my best 
compliments to Mrs. B., and believe me to be, 
My dear Sir, 

Yours most truly, 

B. B, 



CIV. 
€o iWr. mmiam ©tuffes&airt. 



[The excise and farming alternately occupied the poet's thought* 
in Edinburgh : he studied books of husbandry and took lessons in 
gauging, and in the latter he became expert.] 



Mauchline, March 3rd, 1788. 
My dear Sir, 

Apologies for not writing are frequently like 
apologies for not singing — the apology better 
than the song. I have fought my way severely 
through the savage hospitality of this country, 
to send every guest drunk to bed if they can. 

I executed your commission in Glasgow, and 
I hope the cocoa came safe. 'Twas the same 
price and the very same kind as your former 
parcel, for the gentleman recollected your buying 
there perfectly well. 

I should return my thanks for your hos- 

pitality (I leave a blank for the epithet, as I 
know none can do it justice) to a poor, wayfaring 
bard, who was spent and almost overpowered 
fighting with prosaic wickednesses in high places; 
but I am afraid lest you should burn the letter 
whenever you come to the passage, so I pass 
over it in silence. I am just returned from 
visiting Mr. Miller's farm. The friend whom I 
told you I would take with me was highly pleased 
with the farm ; and as he is, without exception, 
the most intelligent farmer in the country, he 
has staggered me a good deal. I have the two 



1 iMickle. 



4F ROBERT BURNS. 



283 



plans of life before me ; I shall balance them to 
the best of my judgment, and fix on the most 
eligible. I have written Mr. Miller, and shall 
wait on him when I come to town, which shall 
be the beginning or middle of next week : I 
would be in sooner, but my unlucky knee is 
rather worse, and I fear for some time will 
scarcely stand the fatigue of my Excise instruc- 
tions. I only mention these ideas to you ; and, 
indeed, except Mr. Ainslie, whom I intend writ- 
ing to to-morrow, I will not write at all to Edin- 
burgh till I return to it. I would send my 
compliments to Mr. Nicol, but he would be hurt 
if he knew I wrote to anybody and not to him : 
so I shall only beg my best, kindest, kindest 
compliments to my worthy hostess and the sweet 
little rose-bud. 

So soon as I am settled in the routine of life, 
either as an Excise-officer, or as a farmer, I pro- 
pose myself great pleasure from a regular cor- 
respondence with the only man almost I ever 
saw who joined the most attentive prudence with 
the warmest generosity. 

I am much interested for that best of men, 
Mr. Wood ; I hope he is in better health and 
spirits than wlien I saw him last. 
I am ever, 

My dearest friend, 
Your obliged, humble servant, 

R. B. 



cv 



[The sensible and intelligent farmer on wnose judgment Burns 
depended in the choice of his farm, was Mr. Tait, of Glenconner.] 



Mauchline, 3rd March, 1788. 

My dear Friend, 

I am just returned from Mr. Miller's farm. 
My old friend whom I took with me was highly 
pleased with the bargain, and advised me to ac- 
cept of it. He is the most intelligent sensible 
farmer in the county, and his advice has stag- 
gered me a good deal. I have the two plans 
before me : I shall endeavour to balance them 
to the best of my judgment, and fix on the most 
eligible. On the whole, if I find Mr. Miller in 
the same favourable disposition as when I saw 
him last, I shall in all probability turn farmer. 

I have been through sore tribulation and under 
much buffetting of the wicked one since I came 
to this country. Jean I found banished, for- 
lorn, destitute and friendless : I have reconciled 
her to her fate, and I have reconciled her to her 
mother. 

I shall be in Edinburgh middle of next week. 
My farming ideas I shall keep private till I see. 
I got a letter from Clarinda yesterday, and she 
tells me she has got no letter of mine but one. 



Tell her that I wrote to her from Glasgow, from 
Kilmarnock, from Mauchline, and yesterday 
from Cumnock as I returned from Dumfries. 
Indeed she is the only person in Edinburgh I 
have written to till this day. How are your soul 
and body putting up ? — a little like man and 
wife, I suppose. 

R.B. 



CVI. 

Zo &tcl)art) 23rofon. 



[Richard Brown, It is said, fell off in his liking for Hums wheo 
found that he had made free with his name in his epistle to Moore. J 



Mauchline, 1th March, 1788. 

I have been out of the country, my dear 
friend, and have not had an opportunity of 
writing till now, when I am afraid you will be 
gone out of the country too. I have been look- 
ing at farms, and, after all, perhaps I may settle 
in the character of a farmer. I have got so 
vicious a bent to idleness, and have ever been 
so little a man of business, that it will take no 
ordinary effort to bring my mind properly into 
the routine : but you will say a " great effort is 
worthy of you." I say so myself ; and butter 
up my vanity with all the stimulating compli- 
ments I can think of. Men of grave, geometri- 
cal minds, the sons of " which was to be demon- 
strated," may cry up reason as much as they 
please ; but I have always found an honest pas- 
sion, or native instinct, the truest auxiliary in 
the warfare of this world. Reason almost al- 
ways comes to me like an unlucky wife to a poor 
devil of a husband, just in sufficient time to add 
his reproaches to his other grievances. 

I am gratified with your kind enquiries after 
Jean ; as, after all, I may say with Othello : — 



' Excellent wretch ! 



Perdition catch my soul, but I do love thee l" 

I go for Edinburgh on Monday. 

Yours,— R. B. 



CVII. 



[The change wnich Hums says m this letter took place in Ms Meas 
refers, it is said, to his West India voyage, on which, it appears by 
one of his letters to Smith, he meditated for some time after nil 
debut in Edinburgh.] 

Mossgiel, 1th March, 1788. 
Dear Sir, 
I have partly changed my ideas, my dear 
friend, since I saw you. I took old Glenconner 
with me to Mr. Miller's farm, and he was so 



284 



SENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



pleased with it, that I have wrote an offer to 
Mr. Miller, which, if he accepts, I shall sit down 
a plain farmer, the happiest of lives when a man 
can live by it. In this case I shall not stay in 
Edinburgh ahove a week. I set out on Monday, 
and would have come by Kilmarnock, hut there 
are several small sums owing me for my first 
edition about Galston and Newmills, and I shall 
set off so early as to dispatch my business and 
reach Glasgow by night. When I return, I 
shall devote a forenoon or two to make some 
kind of acknowledgment for all the kindness I 
owe your friendship. Now that I hope to settle 
with some credit and comfort at home, there 
was not any friendship or friendly correspon- 
dence that promised me more pleasure than 
yours ; I hope I will not be disappointed. I 
trust the spring will renew your shattered frame, 
and make your friends happy. You and I have 
often agreed that life is no great blessing on the 
whole. The close of life, indeed, to a reasoning 
eye, is, 

" Dark as was chaos, ere the infant sun 
Was roll'd together, or had try'd his beams 
Athwart the gloom profound." l 

But an honest man has nothing to fear. If 
we lie down in the grave, the whole man a piece 
of broken machinery, to moulder with the clods 
of the valley, be it so ; at least there is an end 
of pain, care, woes, and wants : if that part of us 
called mind does survive the apparent destruc- 
tion of the man — away with old-wife prejudices 
and tales ! Every age and every nation has had 
a different set of stories ; and as the many are 
always weak, of consequence, they have often, 
perhaps always, been deceived : a man conscious 
of having acted an honest part among his fellow- 
creatures — even granting that he may have 
been the sport at times of passions and instincts 
— he goes to a great unknown Being, who could 
have no other end in giving him existence but 
to make him happy, who gave him those pas- 
sions and instincts, and well knows their force. 

These, my worthy friend, are my ideas ; and 
I know they are not far different from yours. 
It becomes a man of sense to think for himself, 
particularly in a case where all men are equally 
interested, and where, indeed, all men are equally 
in the dark. 

Adieu, my dear Sir ; God send us a cheerful 
meeting ! 

R. B. 



» Ifcurt Grave. 



CVIII. 
^o 0lxa. Bunlcp 



[One of the daughters of Mrs. Dunlop painted a sketch of Cofla 
from Bums' poem of the Vision : it is still in existence, and is said to 
have merit.] 



Mossgiel, \1th March, 1788. 
Madam, 

The last paragraph in yours of the 30th Fe- 
bruary affected me most, so I shall begin my 
answer where you ended your letter. That I 
am often a sinner with any little wit I have, I 
do confess : but I have taxed my recollection to 
no purpose, to find out when it was employed 
against you. I hate an ungenerous sarcasm a 
great deal worse than I do the devil ; at least as 
Milton describes him ; and though I may be ras- 
cally enough to be sometimes guilty of it myself, 
I cannot endure it in others. You, my honoured 
friend, who cannot appear in any light but you 
are sure of being respectable — you can afford to 
pass by an occasion to display your wit, because 
you may depend for fame on your sense ; or, if 
you choose to be silent, you know you can rely 
on the gratitude of many, and the esteem of all ; 
but, God help us, who are wits or witlings by 
profession, if we stand not for fame there, we 
sink unsupported ! 

I am highly flattered by the news you tell me 
of Coila. I may say to the fair painter who does 
me so much honour, as Dr. Beattie says to Ross 
the poet of his muse Scota, from which, by the 
by, I took the idea of Coila ('tis a poem of Beat-tie's 
in the Scottish dialect, which perhaps you have 
never seen) : — 

" Ye shak your head, but o' my fegs, 
Ye've set auld Scota on her legs : 
Lang had she lien wi' beff's and flegs, 

Bumbaz'd and dizzie, 
Her fiddle wanted strings and pegs. 

Wae's me, poor hizzie." 

R. B. 



CIX. 



("The uncouth cares of which the poet complains m this letter wert 
the construction of a common farm-house, with barn, byre, and 
stable to suit.] 



Edinburgh, March 14, 1788. 

I know, my ever dear friend, that you will be 
pleased with the news when I tell you, I have at 
last taken a lease of a farm. Yesternight I 
completed a bargain with Mr. Miller, of Dal- 
swinton, for the farm of Ellisland, on the banks 
of the Nith, between five and six miles above 
Dumfries. I begin at Whit-Sunday to build a 
house, drive lime, &c. ; and heaven t>e my help ! 



OF ROBERT 15 URNS. 



285 



for it will take a strong effort to bring my mind 
into the routine of business. I have dischai'ged 
all the army of my former pursuits, fancies, and 
pleasures ; a motley host i and have literally 
and strictly retained only the ideas of a few 
friends, which I have incorporated into a life- 
guard. I trust in Dr. Johnson's observation, 
" Where much is attempted, something is done." 
Firmness, both in sufferance and exertion, is a 
character I would wish to bo thought to pos- 
sess : and have always despised the whining 
yelp of complaint, and the cowardly, feeble re- 
solve. 

Poor Miss K. is ailing a good deal this winter, 
and begged me to remember her to you the first 
time I wrote to you. Surely woman, amiable 
woman, is often made in vain. Too delicately 
formed for the rougher pursuits of ambition ; 
too noble for the dirt of avarice, and even too 
gentle for the rage of pleasure ; formed indeed 
for, and highly susceptible of enjoyment and 
rapture ; but that enjoyment, alas ! almost 
wholly at the mercy of the caprice, malevo- 
lence, stupidity, or wickedness of an animal 
at all times comparatively unfeeling, and often 
brutal. 

KB. 



CX. 
3To Mtrfjnrt) 23rofon. 



[The excitement referred to in this _>tter arose from the dilatory 
and reluctant movements of Creech, who was so slow in settling his 
accounts that the poet suspected his solvency.] 



Glasgow, 2&h March, 1788. 
I am monstrously to blame, my dear Sir, in 
not writing to you, and sending you the Direc- 
tory. I have been getting my tack extended, as 
I have taken a farm ; and I have been racking 
shop accounts with Mr. Creech, both of which, 
together with watching, fatigue, and a load of 
care almost too heavy for my shoulders, have in 
some degree actually fevered me. I really for- 
got the Directory yesterday, which vexed me ; 
but I was convulsed with rage a great part of 
the day. I have to thank you for the ingenious, 
friendly, and elegant epistle from your friend 
Mr. Crawford. I shall certainly write to him, 
but not now. This is merely a card to you, as I 
am posting to Dumfries-shire, where many per- 
plexing arrangements await me. I am vexed 
about the Directory ; but, my dear Sir, forgive 
me: these eight days I have been positively 
crazed. My compliments to Mrs. B. I shall 
write to you at Grenada. — I am ever, my dearest 
iiiend, 

Yours, — E. B. 



CXI. 
Wo i&r. Robert ©leg&orn. 



[Clcghorn was a farmer, a social man, and much of a muslcl^i* 
The poet wrote the Chevalier's Lament to please the jacobilical Usta 
of his friend; and the musician gave lrm advice in fanning which 
he neglected to follow: — " Fanner Attention," said Cleghorn, "is r 
good farmer everywhere."] 



Mauchline, 3lst March, 1788. 

Yesterday, my dear Sir, as I was riding 
through a track of melancholy, joyless muirs, 
between Galloway and Ayrshire, it being Sun- 
day, I turned my thoughts to psalms, find 
hymns, and spiritual songs ; and your favour- 
ite air, "Captain O'Kean." coming at length 
into my head, I tried these words to it. You 
will see that the first part of the tune must be 
repeated. 

I am tolerably pleased with these verses, but 
as I have only a sketch of the tune, I leave it 
with you to try if they suit the measure of the 
music. 

I am so harassed with care and anxiety, about 
this farming project of mine, that my muse has 
degenerated into the veriest prose-wench that 
ever picked cinders, or followed a tinker. When 
I am fairly got into the routine of business, I 
shall trouble you with a longer epistle ; perhaps 
with some queries respecting farming ; at pre- 
sent, the world sits such a load on my mind, 
that it has effaced almost every trace of the poet 
in me. 

My very best compliments and good wishes to 
Mrs. Cleghorn. 

R. B.- 



CXII. 
©o ffilx. TOHtam Dunbar, 

EDINBURGH. 



[This letter was printed for the first time by Robert Chambers, in 
his " People's Edition" of Burns.] 



Mauchline, *]th April, 1788. 

I have not delayed so long to write you, my 
much respected friend, because I thought no 
farther of my promise. I have long since given 
up that kind of formal correspondence, where 
one sits down irksomely to write a letter, be- 
cause we think we are in duty bound so to do. 

I have been roving over the country, as the 
farm I have taken is forty miles from this place, 
hiring servants and preparing matters ; but most 
of all, I am earnestly busy to bring about a re- 
volution in my own mind. As, till within these 
eighteen months, I never was the wealthy mas- 
ter of ten guineas, my knowledge of business is 
to learn ; add to this, my late scenes of idleness 
4 n 



286 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



and dissipation have enervated my mind to an 
alarming degree. Skill in the sober science of 
life is my most serious and hourly study. I have 
dropt all conversation and all reading (prose 
reading) but what tends in some way or other 
to my serious aim. Except one worthy young 
fellow, I have not one single correspondent in 
Edinburgh. You have indeed kindly made me 
an offer of that kind. The world of wits, and 
gens comme il faut which I lately left, and with 
whom I never again will intimately mix — from 
that port, Sir, I expect your Gazette : what les 
beaux esprits are saying, Avhat they are doing, 
and what they are singing. Any sober intelli- 
gence from my sequestered walks of life ; any 
droll original; any passing remark, important 
forsooth, because it is mine ; any little poetic 
effort, however embryo th ; these, my dear Sir, 
are all you have to expect from me. When I 
talk of poetic efforts, I must have it always un- 
derstood, that I appeal from your wit and taste 
to your friendship and good nature. The first 
would be my favourite tribunal, where I defied 
censure ; but the last, where I declined justice. 

I have scarcely made a single distich since I 
saw you. When I meet with an old Scots air 
that has any facetious idea in its name, I have a 
peculiar pleasure in following out that idea for a 
verse or two. 

I trust that this will find you in better health 
than I did last time I called for you. A few 
lines from you, directed to me at Mauchline, 
were it but to let me know how you are, will set 
my mind a good deal [at rest]. Now, never 
shun the idea of writing me because perhaps you 
may be out of humour or spirits. I could give 
you a hundred good consequences attending a 
dull- letter ; one, for example, and the remaining 
ninety -nine some other time — it will always 
serve to keep in countenance, my much re- 
pected Sir, your obliged friend and humble 
servant, 

R. B. 



CXIII. 



I The sacrlJlce referred to by the poet, was his resolution b 
his fortune, with Jean Armour.] 



Mauchline, 7th April, 1788. 
I am indebted to you and Miss Nimmo for 
letting me know Miss Kennedy. Strange ! 
how apt we are to indulge prejudices in our 
judgments of one another ! Even I, who pique 
myself on my skill in marking characters — be- 
cause I am too proud of my character as a man, 
to be dazzled in my judgment for glaring 
wealth ; and too proud of rny situation as a 



poor man to be biassed against squalid poverty 
— I was unacquainted with Miss K's. very un- 
common worth. 

I am going on a good deal progressive in mon 
grand but, the sober science of life. I have 
lately made some sacrifices, for which, were I 
viva voce with you to paint the situation and re- 
count the circumstances, you should applaud 
me. 

R,B. 



CXIV. 



[The hint alluded to, was a whisper of the insolvency of Creech 
aut the bailie was firm as the Bass.] 



No date. 

Now for that wayward, unfortunate thing, my • 
self. I have broke measures with Creech, anil 
last week I wrote him a frosty, keen letter. Ho 
replied in terms of chastisement, and promised 
me upon his honour that I should have the ac- 
count on Monday ; but this is Tuesday, and yet 
I have not heard a word from him. God have 
mercy on me! a poor d-mned, incautious, duped, 
unfortunate fool ! The sport, the miserable 
victim of rebellious pride, hypochondriac ima- 
gination, agonizing sensibility, and bedlam pas- 
sions ! 

" I wish that I were dead, but I'm no like to 
die !" I had lately " a hairbreadth "scape, in th' 
imminent deadly breach" of love too. Thank 
my stars, I got off heart-whole, " waur fleyd 
than hurt." — Interruption. 

I have this moment got a hint : I fear I am 
something like — undone — but I hope for the 
best. Come, stubborn pride and unshrinking 
resolution ; accompany me through this, to me, 
miserable world ! You must not desert me ! 
Your friendship I think I can count on, though 1 
should date my letters from a marching regiment. 
Early in life, and all my life J reckoned on a 
recruiting drum as my forlorn hope. Seriously 
though, life at present presents me with but a 
melancholy path : but*— my limb will soon be 
sound, and I shall struggle on. 

R. B. 



cxv 

Eo 0ii$& palmer*. 



[Although Burns gladly grasped at a situation in the Excise, he 
wrote many apologies to his friends, for the acceptance of a place, 
which, though humble enough, was the only one that offered.] 



Edinburgh, Sunday. 
To-morrow, my dear madam, I leave Edin- 
burgh. I have altered all my plans, of future 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



0R7 



li/e. A farm that I could live in, I could not 
find ; and, indeed, after the necessary support 
my brother and the rest of the family required, I 
could not venture on farming in that style suit- 
able to my feelings. You will condemn me for the 
next step I have taken. I have entered into the 
Excise. I stay in the west about three weeks, 
and then return to Edinburgh, for six weeks' 
instructions ; afterwards, for I get employ in- 
stantly, I go ou il plait a, Dieu, — et mon Roi. I 
have chosen this, my dear friend, after mature 
deliberation. The question is not at what door 
of fortune's palace shall we enter in ; but what 
doors does she open to us ? I was not likely to 
get anything to do. I wanted un but, which is 
a dangerous, an unhappy situation. I got this 
without any hanging on, or mortifying solicita- 
tion ; it is immediate bread, and though poor in 
comparison of the last eighteen months of my 
existence, 7 tis luxury in comparison of all my 
preceding life: besides, the cciimissioners are 
some of them my acquaintances, and all of 
them my firm friends. 

R.B. 



CXVI. 



The Tasso, with the perusai of which Mre, Dunlop indulged the 
poet, was not the fine version of Fairfax, but the translation of 
Hoole— a f-.r inferior performance.] 



Mauckline, 28th April, 1788. 
Madam, 

Your powers of reprehension must be great 
indeed, as I assure you they made my heart 
ache with penitential pangs, even though I was 
really not guilty. As I commence farmer at 
Whit-Sunday, you will easily guess I must be 
pretty busy ; but that is not all. As I got the 
offer of the Excise business without solicitation, 
and as it costs me only six months' attendance 
for instructions, to entitle me to a commission— 
which commission lies by me, and at any future 
period, on my simple petition, can be resumed 
— I thought five-and-thirty-pounds a-year was 
no bad dernier ressort for a poor poet, if fortune 
in her jade tricks should kick him down from 
the little eminence to which she has lately 
helped him up. 

For this reason, I am at present attending 
these instructions, to have them completed be- 
fore Wkit-sunday. Still, Madam, I prepared 
with the sincerest pleasure to meet you at the 
Mount, and came to my brother's on Saturday 
night, to set out on Sunday ; but for some 
nights preceding I had slept in an apartment, 
where the force of the winds and rains was only 
mitigated by being sifted through numberless 
apertures in the windows, walls, &c. In conse- 
quence I was on Sunday, Monday, and part of 



Tuesday, unable to stir out of bed, with all the 
miserable effects of a violent cold. 

You see, Madam, the truth of the French 
maxim, le vrai rCest pas toujours le vrai-semblable ; 
your last was so full of expostulation, and was 
something so like the language of an offended 
friend, that I began to tremble for a correspon- 
dence, which I had with grateful pleasure set 
down as one of the greatest enjoyments of my 
future life. 

Your books have delighted me : Virgil, Dry- 
den, and Tasso were all equally strangers to met 
but of this more at large in my next. 

R.B. 



CXVII. 
®o $Hx. gjames £mtth, 

AVON PRINTFIELD, LINLITHGOW. 

[James Smith, as this letter intimates, had moved from Mauch- 
liue, to try to mend his fortunes at Avon Printfield, near Linlithgow.] 

Mauchline, April 28, 1788. 

Beware of your Strasburgh, my good Sir ! 
Look on this as the opening of a correspon- 
dence, like the opening of a twenty-four gun 
battery ! 

There is no understanding a man properly, 
without knowing something of his previous 
ideas (that is to say, if the man has any ideas ; for 
I know many who, in the animal-muster, pass for 
men, that are the scanty masters of only one idea 
on any given subject, and by far the greatest part 
of your acquaintances and mine can barely boast 
of ideas, 1'25 — 1*5 — 1'75 or some such fractional 
matter ;) so to let you a little into the secrets of 
my pericranium, there is, you must know, a cer- 
tain clean-limbed, handsome, bewitching young 
hussy of your acquaintance, to whom I have 
lately and privately given a matrimonial title to 
my corpus. 

" Bode a robe and wear it, 
Bode a pock and bear it," 

says the wise old Scots adage ! I hate to presage 
ill-luck ; and as my girl has been doubly kinder 
to me than even the best of women usually are 
to their partners of our sex, in similar circum- 
stances, I reckon on twelve times a brace of 
children against I celebrate my twelfth wedding- 
day : these twenty-four will give me twenty- 
four gossipings, twenty-four christenings (I 
mean one equal to two,) and I hope, by the 
blessing of the God of my fathers, to make 
them twenty-four dutiful children to their pa- 
rents, twenty-four useful members of society, 
and twenty-four approven servants of their 
God ! * * * 

" Light's heartsome," quo' the wife when she 
was stealing sheep. You see what a lamp I 
have hung up to lighten your paths, when you 
aro idle enough to explore the combinations and 



'.288 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



relations of my ideas. 'Tis now as plain as a 
pike-staff, why a twenty-four gun battery was a 
metaphor I could readily employ. 

Now for business.— I intend to present Mrs. 
Burns with a printed shawl, an article of which 
I dare say you have variety : 'tis my first pre- 
sent to her 'since I have irrevocably called her 
mine, and I have a kind of whimsical wish to 
get her the first said present from an old and 
much-valued friend of hers and mine, a trusty 
Trojan, on whose friendship I count myself pos- 
sessed of as a life-rent lease. 

Look on this letter as a " beginning of sor- 
rows ;" I will write you till your eyes ache read- 
ing nonsense. 

Mrs. Burns ('tis only her private designation) 
begs her best compliments to you. 

R. B. 



CXVIII. 

2To Professor IhtgaUi 5>t*foart. 



'Dugald Stewart loved the poet, admired his work's, and enriched 
the biography of Currie with some genuine reminiscences of his ear- 
lier days.] 



Sir, 



Mauchline, 3d May, 1788. 



I enclose you one or two more of my baga- 
telles. If the fervent wishes of honest gratitude 
have any influence with that great unknown 
being who frames the chain of causes and events, 
prosperity and happiness will attend your visits 
to the continent, and return you safe to your 
native shore. 

Wherever I am, allow me, Sir, to claim it as 
my privilege to acquaint you with my progress 
in my trade of rhymes ; as I am sure I could 
say it with truth, that next to my little fame, 
and the having it in my power to make life more 
comfortable to those whom nature has made 
dear to me, I shall ever regard your counte- 
nance, your patronage, your friendly good offices, 
as the most valued consequence of my late suc- 
cess in life. 

R. B. 



CXIX. 

STo JUtrg. Uunlop. 



[A poem, something after the fashion of the Georgics, was long 
present to the mind of Hums: had fortune been more friendly he 
might have in due time produced it.] 



Mauchline, 4th May, 1788. 
Madam, 
Duyden's Virgil has delighted me. I do not 
know whether the critics will agree with me, 



but the Georgics are to me by far the best of 
Virgil. It is indeed a species of writing en- 
tirely new to me ; and has filled my head with 
a thousand fancies of emulation : but, alas I 
when I read the Georgics, and then survey my 
own powers, 'tis like the idea of a Shetland 
pony, drawn up by the side of a thorough-bred 
hunter, to start for the plate. I own I am dis- 
appointed in the iEneid, Faultless correctness 
may please, and does highly please, the lettered 
critic: but to that awful character I have not 
the most distant pretensions. I do not know 
whether I do not hazard my pretensions to be a 
critic of any kind, when I say that I think 
Virgil, in many instances, a servile copier of 
Homer. If I had the Odyssey by me, I could 
parallel many passages where Virgil has evi- 
dently copied, but by no means improved, Ho- 
mer. Nor can I think there is any thing of this 
owing to the translators ; for, from every thing 
I have seen of Dryden, I think him in genius 
and fluency of language, Pope's master. I have 
not perused Tasso enough to form an opinion : 
in some future letter, you shall have my ideas of 
him ; though I am conscious my criticisms must 
be very inaccurate and imperfect, as there I 
have ever felt and lamented my want of learn- 
ing most. 

R. B. 



cxx. 

^o #lr, Robert ®inglte. 



[1 have heard the gentleman say, to whom this brief letter is ad- 
dressed, how much he was pleased with the intimation, t'hat the 
poet had re-united himself to Jean Armour, for he knew his heart 
was with her.] 



Mauchline, May 26, 1788. 
My dear Friend, 

I am two kind letters in your debt, but I have 
been from home, and horribly busy, buying and 
preparing for my farming business, over and 
above the plague of my Excise instructions, 
which this week will finish. 

As I flatter my wishes that I foresee many 
future years' correspondence between us, 'tis 
foolish to talk of excusing dull epistles ; a dull 
letter may be a very kind one. I have the 
pleasure to tell you that I have been extremely 
fortunate in all my buyings, and bargainings 
hitherto ; Mrs. Burns not excepted ; which title 
I now avow to the world. I am truly pleased 
with this last affair : it has indeed added to my 
anxieties for futurity, but it has given a stabil 
ity to my mind, and resolutions unknown be- 
fore ; and the poor girl has the most sacred 
enthusiasm of attachment to me, and has not a 
wish but A o gratify my every idea of her deport- 
ment. 1 am interrupted. — Farewell ! my dear 
Sir. 

• , KB, 



OP ROBERT BURNS. 



289 



CXXI. 



[TWa letter, on the hiring-scason, is well worth the considera&w, 
of all masters, and all servants. In England, servants are engaged 
by the month ; in Scotland by the half-year, and therefore less at 
the mercy of the changeable and capricious.] 



21th May, 1788. 
Madam, 

I have been torturing my philosophy to no 
purpose, to account for that kind partiality of 
yours, which has followed me, in my return to the 
shade of life, with assiduous benevolence. Often 
did I regret, in the fleeting hours of my late will- 
o'-wisp appearance, that " here I had no conti- 
nuing city;" and but for the consolation of a few 
solid guineas, could almost lament the time that 
a momentary acquaintance with wealth and 
splendour put me so much out of conceit with 
the sworn companions of my road through life — 
insignificance and poverty. 

There are few circumstances relating to the 
unequal distribution of the good tilings of this 
life that give me more vexation (I mean in 
what I see around me) than the importance the 
opulent bestow on their trifling family affairs, 
compared with the very same things on the con- 
tracted scale of a cottage. Last afternoon I 
had the honour to spend an hour or two at a 
good Avoman's fire-side, where the planks that 
composed the floor Avere decorated with a splen- 
did carpet, and the gay table sparkled Avith 
silver and china. 'Tis iioav about term-day, and 
there has been a revolution among those crea- 
tures, who though in appearance partakers, and 
equally noble partakers, of the same nature 
Avith Madame, are from time to time — their 
nerves, their sinews, their health, strength, wis- 
dom, experience, genius, time, nay a good part 
of their very thoughts — sold for months and 
years, not only to the necessities, the conveni- 
ences, but, the caprices of the important feAv. 
We talked of the insignificant creatures ; nay, 
notAvithstanding their general stupidity and ras- 
cality, did some of the poor devils the honour to 
commend them. But light be the turf upon 
his breast avIio taught "Reverence thyself!" 
We looked doAvnon the unpolished wretches, 
their impertinent Avives and clouterly brats, as 
the lordly bull does on the little dirty ant-hill, 
whose puny inhabitants he crushes in the care- 
lessness of his ramble, or tosses in the air in the 
wantonness of his pride. 

R.B. 



CXXIT. 

2To jjWt*. Dunlop, 

AT jfl. DDNLOP'8, HADDIKQrON. 



fin this, the poet's /irst letter from Ellisland, he lays down hU 
whole system of in-door and out-door economy : while his wife 
took care of the household, he was to manage the farm, and " pen a 
stanza" during his hours ufleisure J 



Ellisland, \$th June, 1788. 

" Where'er I roam, whatever realms I see, 
My heart, untravell'd, fondly turns to thee; 
Still to my friend it turns with ceaseless pain, 
And drags at each remove a lengthening chain." 

Goldsmith. 

This is the second day, my honoured friend, 
that I have been on my farm. A solitary in- 
mate of an old smoky spense ; far from everj 
object I love, or by whom I am beloved ; nor 
any acquaintance older than yesterday, except 
Jenny Geddes, the old mare I ride on ; Avhile 
uncouth cares and novel plans hourly insult iny 
aAvkward ignorance and bashful inexperience. 
There is a foggy atmosphere native to my soul 
in the hour of care ; consequently the dreary 
objects seem larger than the life. Extreme 
sensibility, irritated and prejudiced on the 
gloomy side by a series of misfortunes and dis- 
appointments, at that period of my existence 
AvLen the soul is laying in her cargo of ideas for 
the voyage of life, is, I believe, the principal 
cause of this unhappy frame of mind. 

" The valiant, in himself, what can he suffer ! 
Or what need hj regard h\s singla woes?" &c. 

Your surmise, Madam, is just; I am indeed 
a husband. 

* * ■» * 

To jealousy or infidelity I am an equal 
stranger. My preservative from the first is the 
most thorough consciousness of her sentiments 
of honour, and her attachment to me : my anti- 
dote against the last is my long and deep-rooted 
affection for her. 

In houseAvife matters, of aptness to learn and 
activity to execute, she is eminently mistress ; 
and during my absence in Nithsdale, she is re- 
gularly and constantly apprentice to my mo- 
ther and sisters in their dairy and other rural 
business. 

The muses must not be offended when I tell 
them, the concerns of my wife and family will, 
in my mind, always take the pas ; but I assure 
them their ladyships will ever come next in 
place. 

You are right that a bachelor state would 
have ensured me more friends; but, from a 
cause you will easily guess, conscious peace in 
the enjoyment of my own mind, and unmis- 
trusting confidence in approaching my God* 
would seldom have been of the number. 
4 E 



2!)0 



G ENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



1 found a once much-loved and still much- I 
loved female, literally and truly cast out to | 
the mercy of the naked elements; but i en- 
abled her to purcnase a shelter ; — there is no I 
sporting with a fellow-creature's happiness or 
misery. 

The most placid good-nature and sweetness 
of disposition; a warm heart, gratefully de- 
voted with all its powers to love me ; vigorous 
health and sprightly cheerfulness, set off to the 
best advantage by a more than commonly 
handsome figure ; these, I think, in a woman, 
may make a good wife, though she should never 
have read a page but the Scriptures of the 
Old and New Testament, nor have danced in 
a brighter assembly than a penny pay-wed- 
ding. 

R. B. 



CXXTII. 



(Had Burns written his fine song, beginning "Contented wi' 
little, and can tie wi' mair, ' when he penned this letter, the proae 
might have followed as a note to the verse : he calls the Excise a 
luxury.] 



Ellisland, June 14, 1708. 
This is now the third day, my dearest Sir, 
that I have sojourned in these regions; and 
during these three days you have occupied more 
of my thoughts than in three weeks preceding : 
in Ayrshire I have several variations of friend- 
ship's compass, here it points invariably to the 
pole. My farm gives me a good many uncouth 
cares and anxieties, but I hate the language of 
complaint. Job, or some one of his friends, 
says well — " why should a living man com- 
plain r 

I have lately been much mortified with con- 
templating an unlucky imperfection in the very 
framing and construction of my soul ; namely, 
a blundering inaccuracy of her olfactory organs 
in hitting the scent of craft or design in my fel- 
low-creatures. I do not mean any compliment 
to my ingenuousness; or to hint that the defect 
is in consequence of the unsuspicious simplicity 
of conscious truth and honour : I take it to be, 
in some way or other, an imperfection in the 
mental sight ; or, metaphor apart, some modi- 
fication of dulness. In two or three small in- 
stances lately, I have been most shamefully 
out. 

I have all along hitherto, in the warfare of 
life, been bred to arms among the light-horse — 
the piquet-guards of fancy ; a kind of hussars 
and Highlanders of the brain ; but I am firmly 
resolved to sell out of these giddy battalions. 



who have no ideas of a battle but fighting the 
foe, or of a siege but storming the town. Cost 
what it will, I am determined to buy in among 
the grave squadrons of heavy-armed thought, or 
the artillery corps of plodding contrivance. 

What books are you reading, or what is the 
subject of your thoughts, besides the great stu- 
dies of your profession ? You said something 
about religion in your last. I don't exactly re- 
member wha't it was, as the letter is in Ayrshire; 
but I thought it not only prettily said, but nobly 
thought. You will make a noble fellow if once 
you were married. I make no reservation of 
your being well-married : you have so much 
sense, and knowledge of human nature, that 
though you may not realize perhaps the ideas 
of romance, yet you will never be ill-mar- 
ried. 

Were it not for the terrors of my ticklish situ- 
ation respecting provision for a family of chil- 
dren, I am decidedly of opinion that the step I 
have taken is vastly for my happiness. As it is, 
I look to the Excise scheme as a certainty of 
maintenance ! — luxury to what either Mrs. Burns 
or I were born to. 



Adieu, 



It. B. 



CXXIV 



[The kindness of Field, the profilist, has not only indulged mc 
with a look at the original, from which the profile alluded to in th£ 
letter was taken, but has put me in possession of a capital copv.] 



Mauchline, 23rd June, 1788. 
This letter, my dear Sir, is only a business 
scrap. Mr. Miers, profile painter in your town, 
has executed a profile of Dr. Blacklock for me ; 
do me the favour to call for it, and sit to him 
yourself for me, which put in the same size as 
the doctor's. The account of both profiles will 
be fifteen shillings, which I have given to James 
Conn ell, our Mauchline carrier, to pay you 
when you give him the parcel. You must not, 
my friend, refuse to sit. The time is short ; 
when I sat to Mr. Miers, I am sure he did not 
exceed two minutes. I propose hanging Lord 
Glencaii n, the Doctor and you in trio over my 
new chimney-piece that is to be. 

Adieu, 

R.B. 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



291 



cxxv 

to Mobert ^Unslk, <2f*q. 



[** I'AJteisadegreeof folly," says Burns, in this letter, "in talking 
unnecessarily of one's private affairs." The folly is scarcely less to 
write about them, and much did the poet and his friend write 
ibout their own private affairs, as well as those of others.] 



Ellisland, June 30th, 1788. 
My dear Sir, 

I just now received your brief epistle ; and, 
to take vengeance on your laziness, I have, you 
see, taken a long sheet of writing-paper, and 
have begun at the top of the page, intending to 
scribble on to the very last corner. 

I am vexed at that affair of the * * *, but 
dare not enlarge on the subject until you 
send me your direction, as I suppose that will 
be altered on your late master and friend's 
death. I am concerned for the old fellow's 
exit, only as I fear it may be to your disad- 
vantage in any respect — for an old man's 
dying, except he have been a very benevolent 
character, or in some particular situation of life 
that the welfare of the poor or the helpless de- 
pended on him, I think it an event of the most 
trifling moment to the world. Man is natu- 
rally a kind, benevolent animal, but he is 
dropped into such a needy situation here in this 
vexatious world, and has such a whoreson hun- 
gry, growling, multiplying pack of necessities, 
appetites, passions, and desires about him, ready 
to devour him for want of other food ; that in 
fact he must lay aside his cares for others that 
he may look properly to himself. You have 
been imposed upon in paying Mr. Miers for the 
profile of a Mr. H. I did not mention it in my 
letter to you, nor did I ever give Mr. Miers any 
such order. I have no objection to lose the 
money, but I will not have any such profile in 
my possession. 

I desired the carrier to pay you, but as I men- 
tioned only fifteen shillings to him, I would ra- 
ther enclose you a guinea note. I have it net, 
indeed, to spare here, as I am only a sojourner 
in a strange land in this place ; but in a day or 
two I return to Mauchline, and there I have 
the bank-notes through the house like salt per- 
mits. 

There is a great degree of folly in talking un- 
necessarily of one's private affairs. I have just 
now been interrupted by one of my new neigh- 
bours, who has made himself absolutely con- 
temptible in my eyes, by his silly, garrulous 
pruriency. I know it has been a fault of my 
own, too i but from this moment I abjure 
it as I would the service of hell ! Your 
poets, spendthrifts, and other fools of that kid- 
ney, pretend forsooth to crack their jokes on 
prudence; but 'tis a squalid vagabond glorying 
in his rags. Still, imprudence respecting money 
matters is much more pardonable than impru- 
dence respecting character. I have no objection 
to prefer prodigality to avarice, in some few in- 



stances; but I appeal to your observation, if you 
have not met, and often met, witli the same 
disingenuousness, the same hollow-hearted in- 
sincerity, and disintegritive depravity of prin- 
ciple, in the hackneyed victims of profusion, as 
in the unfeeling children of parsimony. I have 
every possible reverence for the much-talked-of 
world beyond the grave, and I wish that which 
piety believes, and virtue deserves, may be all 
matter of fact. But in things belonging to, and 
terminating in this present scene of existence, 
man has serious and interesting business on hand. 
Whether a man shall shake hands with wel- 
come in the distinguished elevation of respect, 
or shrink from contempt in the abject corner of 
insignificance ; whether he shall wanton under 
the tropic of plenty, at least enjoy himself in the 
comfortable latitudes of easy convenience, or 
starve in the arctic circle of dreary poverty ; 
whether he shall rise in the manly conscious- 
ness of a self-approving mind, or sink beneath a 
galling load of regret and remorse — these are 
alternatives of the last moment. 

You see how I preach. You used occasion- 
ally to sermonize too ; I wish you would, in 
charity, favour me with a sheet full in your 
own way. I admire the close of a letter Lord 
Bolingbroke writes to Dean Swift: "Adieu 
dear Swift ! Avith all thy faults I love thee en- 
tirely : make an effort to love me with all mine !" 
Humble servant, and all that trumpery, is now 
such a prostituted business, that honest friend 
ship, in her sincere way, must have recourse te- 
ller primitive, simple, — farewell ! 

R. B. 



CXXVI 
®o |$lr. George ffiocfe&art, 

MERCHANT, GLASGOW. 



[Burns, more than any poet of the age, loved to write out copies of 
his favourite poems, and present them to his friends : he sent " The 
Falls of Bruar ' T to Air. Lockhart.] 



Mauchline, I '6th July, 1788. 
My dear Sir, 
I am just going for Nithsdale, else I would 
certainly have transcribed some of my rhyming 
things for you. The Miss Baillies I have seen 
in Edinburgh. " Fair and lovely are thy works, 
Lord God Almighty ! Who would not praise 
thee for these thy gifts in thy goodness to the 
sons of men !" It needed not your fine taste to 
admire them. I declare, one day I had the 
honour of dining at Mr. Baillie's, I was almost 
in the predicament of the children of Israel, when 
they could not look on Moses' face for the glory 
that shone in it when he descended from Mount 
Sinai 



'292 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



I did once write a poetic address from the 
Falls of Bruar to his Grace of Athole, when I 
was in the Highlands. When you return to 
Scotland, let me know, and I will send such of 
my pieces as please myself best. I return to 
Mauchline in about ten days. 

My compliments to Mr. Purden. I am in 
truth, but at present in haste, 

Yours,— R. B. 



CXXVII. 
STo iJWr. ^ettx ftttl. 



j feter Hill was a bookseller in Edinburgh : David Ramsay, printer 
of the Evening Courant : William Dunbar, an advocate, and presi- 
dent of a club of Edinburgh wits ; and Alexander Cunningham, a 
eweller, who loved mirth and wine.] 



My dear Hill, 

I shall say nothing to your mad present — 
you have so long and often been of important 
service to me, and I suppose you mean to go on 
conferring obligations until I shall not be able 
to lift up my face before you. In the mean time, 
as Sir Roger de Coverley, because it happened 
to be a cold day in which he made his will, or- 
dered his servants great coats for mourning, so, 
because I have been this week plagued with an 
indigestion, I have sent you by the carrier a fine 
old ewe-milk cheese. 

Indigestion is the devil : nay, 'tis the devil 
and ail. It besets a man in every one of his 
senses. I lose my appetite at the sight of suc- 
cessful knavery, and sicken to loathing at the 
noise and nonsense of self-important folly. 
When the hollow-hearted wretch takes me by 
the hand, the feeling spoils my dinner : the proud 
man's wine so offends my palate that it chokes 
me in the gullet ; and the pulvilised, feathered, 
pert coxcomb is so disgustful in my nostril that 
my stomach turns. 

If ever you have any of these disagreeable sen- 
sations, let me prescribe for you patience and a 
bit of my cheese. I know that you are no nig- 
gard of your good things among your friends, 
and some of them are in much need of a slice. 
There, in my eye is our friend Smellie ; a man 
positively of the first abilities and greatest 
strength of mind, as well as one of the best 
hearts and keenest wits that I have ever met 
with ; when you see him, as, alas ! he too is 
smarting at the pinch of distressful circum- 
stances, aggravated by the sneer of contumelious 
greatness— a bit of my cheese alone will not 
cure him, but if you add a tankard of brown 
stout, and superadd a magnum of right Oporto, 
you will see his sorrows vanish like the morning 
mist before the summer sun 

Candlish, the earliest friend, except my only 
brother, tliat I have ou earth, and one of the 



worthiest fellows that ever any man called by 
the name of friend, if a luncheon of my cheese 
would help to rid him of some of his super- 
abundant modesty, you would do well to give it 
him. 

David, 1 with his Courant, comes, too, across 
my recollection, and I beg you will help him 
largely from the said ewe-milk cheese, to enable 
him to digest those bedaubing paragraphs with 
which he is eternally larding the lean characters 
of certain great men in a certain great town. I 
grant you the periods are very well turned ; so, 
a fresh egg is a very good thing, but when 
thrown at a man in a pillory, it does not at all 
improve his figure, not to mention the irrepar- 
able loss of the egg. 

My facetious friend Dunbar I would wish 
also to be a partaker : not to digest his spleen, 
for that he laughs off, but to digest his last 
night's wine at the last field-day of the Crochal- 
lan corps. 2 

Among our common friends I must not forget 
one of the dearest of them — Cunningham. The 
brutality, insolence, and selfishness of a world 
unworthy of having such a fellow as he is in it, 
I know sticks in his stomach, and if you can help 
him to anything that will make him a little easier 
on that score, it will be very obliging. 

As to honest J S — e, he is such a 

contented, happy man, that I know not what 
can annoy him, except, perhaps, he may not 
have got the better of a parcel of modest anec- 
dotes which a certain poet gave him one night 
at supper, the last time the said poet was in 
town. 

Though I have mentioned so many men of 
law, I shall have nothing to do with them pro- 
fessedly — the faculty are beyond my prescrip- 
tion. As to their clients, that is another thing ; 
God knows they have much to digest ! 

The clergy I pass by ; their profundity of eru- 
dition, and their liberality of sentiment; their 
total want of pride, and their detestation of hy- 
pocrisy, are so proverbially notorious as to place 
them far, far above either my praise or censure. 

I was going to mention a man of worth whom 
I have the honour to call friend, the Laird of 
Craigdarroch ; but I have spoken to the landlord 
of the King's-Arms inn here, to have at the next 
county meeting a large ewe-milk cheese on the 
table, for the benefit of the Dumfries-shire Whigs, 
to enable them to digest the Duke of Queens- 
berry's late political conduct. 

I have just this moment an opportunity of a 
private hand to Edinburgh, as perhaps yeu would 
not digest double postage. 

R.B. 



i Printer of the Edinburgh Evening Courant. 
2 A club of choioe spirita 






OF ROBERT BURNS. 



293 



CXXVUT. 

©o Robert (3haham, 



OF FINTRY. 



[The flEal and fraterna. bairns alluded to in this letter were satis- 
fied with about three hundred pounds, two hui.dred of which went 
to his brother Gilbert— a sum which made a sad inroad on the 
money arising from the second cd tion of 1 lis Poems.] 



Sir, 

When I had the honour of being introduced 
to you at Athole-house, I did not think so soon 
of asking a favour of you. When Lear, in 
Shakspeare, asked Old Kent why he wished to 
be in his service, he answers, . " Because you 
have that in your face which I would fain call 
master." For some such reason, Sir, do I now 
solicit your patronage. You know, I dare say, 
of an application I lately made to your Board to 
be admitted an officer of Excise. I have, ac- 
cording to form, been examined by a supervisor. 
and to-day I gave in his certificate, with a re- 
quest for an order for instructions. In this 
affair, if I succeed, I am afraid I shall but too 
much need a patronizing friend. Propriety of 
conduct as a man, and fidelity and attention as 
an officer, I dare engage for ; but with any thing 
like business, except manual labour, I am totally 
unacquainted. 

I had intended to have closed my late appear- 
ance on the stage of life, in the character of a 
country farmer ; but after discharging some filial 
and fraternal claims, I find I could only fight 
for existence in that miserable manner, which 
\ have lived to see throw a venerable parent 
into the jaws of a jail; whence death, the 
poor man's last and often best friend, rescued 
him. 

I know, Sir, that to need your goodness, is to 
have a claim on it ; may I, therefore, beg your 
patronage to forward me in this affair, till I be 
appointed to a division ; where, by the help of 
rigid economy, I will try to support that inde- 
pendence so dear to my soul, but which has been 
too often so distant from my situation. 

R. B. 



CXXIX. 

Zo STOIiam ©rutfc$f)ank. 



[The verses which this letter conveyed to Cruikshauk were the 
lines written in Fiiars'-Carse Hermitage : " the first-fruits," says the 
poet, elsewhere, "of my intercourse with the Nithsdale Muse."J 



Ellisland, August, 1788. 

I have not room, my dear friend, to answer 

all the particulars of your last kind letter. I 

shall be in Edinburgh on some business very 

soon ; and as I shall be two days, or perhaps 



three, in town, we shall discuss matters viva voce. 
My knee, I believe, will never be entirely well j 
and an unlucky fall this winter has made it 
still worse. I well remember the circumstance 
you allude to, respecting Creech's opinion of Mr. 
Nicol ; but, as the first gentleman owes me still 
about fifty pounds, I dare not meddle in the 
affair. 

It gave me a very heavy heart to read such 
accounts of the consequence of your quarrel 
with that puritanic, rotten-hearted, hell-commis- 
sioned scoundrel, A . If, notwithstand- 
ing your unprecedented industry in public, and 
your irreproachable conduct in private life, 
he still has you so much in his power, what 
ruin may he not bring on some others I could 
name? 

Many and happy returns of seasons to you, 
with your dearest and worthiest friend, and the 
lovely little pledge of your happy union. May 
the great Author of life, and of every enjoyment 
that can render life delightful, make her that 
comfortable blessing to you both, which you so 
ardently wish for, and which, allow me to say, 
you so well deserve ! Glance over the foregoing 
verses, and let me have your blots. 

Adieu 

B. B. 



exxx. 

Zo 0ix$. Bunlop. 



[The lines on the Hermitage were presented by the poet to Kveral 
of his friends, and Mrs. Dunlop was among the number.] 



Mauchline, August 2, 1788. 

Honoured Madam, 

Your kind letter welcomed me, yesternight, 
to Ayrshire. I am, indeed, seriously angry with 
you at the quantum of your luckpenny; but, 
vexed and hurt as I was, I could not help laugh- 
ing very heartily at the noble lord's apology for 
the missed napkin. 

I would write you from Nithsdale, and give 
you my direction there, but I have scarce an 
opportunity of calling at a post-office once in a 
fortnight. I am six miles from Dumfries, am 
scarcely ever in it myself, and, as yet, have little 
acquaintance in the neighbourhood. Besides, I 
am now very busy on my farm, building a dwell- 
ing-house ; as at present I am almost an evan- 
gelical man in Nithsdale, for I have scarce 
" where to lay my head." 

There are some passages in your last that 
brought tears in my eyes. " The heart knoweth 
its own sorrows, and a stranger intermeddleth 
not therewith." The repository of these "sor- 
rows of the heart" is a kind of sanctum sancto- 
rum : and 'tis only a chosen friend, and that, too, 
4 T 



194 



GENERAL CORK ESPON PENCE 



at particular, sacred times, wlxo dares enter into 
them : — 

" Heaven oft tears the bosom-chords 
That nature finest strung." 

You will excuse this quotation for the sake of 
the author. Instead of entering on this subject 
farther, I shall transcribe you a few lines I 
wrote in a hermitage, belonging to a gentleman 
in my Nithsdale neighbourhood. They are 
almost the only favours the muses have conferred 
on me in that country :— 

Thou whom chance may hither lead. 1 

Since I am in the way of transcribing, the fol- 
lowing were the production of yesterday as I 
jogged through the wild hills of New Cumnock. 
I intend inserting them, or something like them, 
in an epistle I am going to write to the gentle- 
man on whose friendship my Excise hopes de- 
pend, Mr. Graham, of Fintry, one of the 
worthiest and most accomplished gentlemen, 
not only of this country, but, I will dare to say 
it, of this age. The following are just the first 
crude thoughts "unhousel'd, unanointed, unan- 
neal'd :" — 



Pity the tuneful muses" helpless train ; 
Weak, timid landsmen on life's stormy main : 
The world were blest, did bliss on them depend; 
Ah, that "the friendly e'er should want a 

friend !" 
The little fate bestows they share as soon ; 
Unlike sage, proverb'd, wisdom's hard-wrung 

boon. 
Let Prudence number o'er each sturdy son, 
Who life and wisdom at one race begun ; 
Who feel by reason and who give by rule ; 
Instinct's a brute and sentiment a fool ! 
Who make poor will do wait upon I should; 
We own they're prudent, but who owns they're 



Ye wise ones, hence ! ye hurt the social eye ; 
God's image rudely etch'd on base alloy ! 
But come * * * * * * 

Here the muse left me. I am astonished at 
what you tell me of Anthony's writing me. I 
never received it. Poor fellow ! you vex me 
much by telling me that he is unfortunate. I 
ehall be in Ayshire ten days from this date. I 
hare just room for an old Roman farewell. 

R. B. 



i See Poems LXXXIX. nr.6 XC 



CXXXT. 



[This letter has been often cited, and very p perly, as a proof »f 
the- strong attachment of Burns to one who was, in inar.y r 
worthy.] 



Mauchline, August 10, 173& 
My much honoured Friend, 

Yo urs of the 24th Jxine is before me. I found 
it, as well as another valued friend — my wife, 
waiting to welcome me to Ayrshire : I met both 
with the sincerest pleasure. 

When I write you, Madam, I do not sit down 
to answer every paragraph of yours, by echoing 
every sentiment, like the faithful Commons of 
Great Britain in Parliament assembled, answer- 
ing a speech from the best of kings ! I express 
myself in the fulness of my heart, and may, per- 
haps, be guilty of neglecting some of your kind 
inquiries ; but not from your very odd reason, 
that I do not read your letters. All your epistles 
for several months have cost me nothing, except 
a swelling throb of gratitude, or a deep-felt sen- 
timent of veneration. 

When Mrs. Burns, Madam, first found herself 
" as women wish to be who love their lords," as 
I loved her nearly to distraction, we took steps 
for a private marriage. Her parents got the 
hint ; and not only forbade me her company and 
their house, but, on my rumoured West Indian 
voyage, got a warrant to put me in jail, till I 
should find security in my about-to-be paternal 
relation. You know my lucky reverse of for- 
tune. On my eclatant return to Mauchline, I 
was made very welcome to visit my girl. The 
usual consequences began to betray her ; and, 
as I was at that time laid up a cripple in Edin- 
burgh, she was turned, literally turned out of 
doors, and I wrote to a friend to shelter her till 
my return, when our marriage was declared. 
Her happiness or misery w T ere in my hands, and 
who could trifle with such a deposit ? 

I can easily fancy a more agreeable companion 
for my journey of life ; but, upon my honour, I 
have never seen the individual instance. 

Circumstanced as I am, I could never have 
got a female partner for life, who could have 
entered into my favourite studies, relished my 
favourite authors, &c, without probably entail- 
ing on me at the same time expensive living, 
fantastic caprice, perhaps apish affectation, with 
all the other blessed boarding-school acquire- 
ments, which (pardonnez moi, Madame,) are 
sometimes to be found among females of the 
upper ranks, but almost universally pervade the 
misses of the would-be gentry. 

I like your way in your church-yard lucubra- 
tions. Thoughts that are the spontaneous result 
of accidental situations, either respecting health, 
place, or company, have often a strength, and 
always an originality, that wouJd in vain be 
looked for in fancied circumstances and studied 
paragraphs. Forme, I have often - tlioug-ht of 



! 






* 



4ST 










7 2 ) '/ 



/ /////-"/,/ r / <// ,„, . 



•*. * 



'"***. 






*«& 



OF ROBERT BURNS, 



2ftf 



keeping a letter, in progression by me, to send 
yon when the sheet was written ont. Now I 
talk of sheets, I must toll you, my reason for 
writing to you on paper of this kind is my pru- 
riency of writing to you at large. A page of 
post is on such a dis-social, narrow-minded scale, 
that I cannot abide it ; and double letters, at 
least in my miscellaneous reverie manner, are a 
monstrous tax in a close correspondence. 

R. B. 



CXXXIT. 



[Mrs. Miller of Dalswinton was a lady of beauty and talent: she 
wrote verses with skill and taste. Her maiden name was Jean 
Lindsay.] 



Ellisland, \Gth August, 1788. 
I aim in a fine disposition, my honoured friend, 
to send you an elegiac epistle ; and want only 
genius to make it quite Shenstonian: — 

" Why drr.ops my heart with fancied woes forlorn i 
Why sinks my soul, beneath each wintry sky ?" 

My increasing cares in this, as yet strange 
country — gloomy conjectures in the dark vista 
of futurity — consciousness of my own inability 
for the struggle of the world — my broadened 
mark to misfortune in a wife and children ; — I 
could indulge these reflections, till my humour 
should ferment into the most acid chagrin, that 
would corrode the very thread of life. 

To counterwork these baneful feelings, I 
have sat down to write to you ; as I declare 
upon my soul I always find that the most sove- 
reign balm for my wounded spirit. 

I was yesterday at Mr Miller's to dinner for 
the first time. My reception was quite to my 
mind : from the lady of the house quite flatter- 
ing. She sometimes hits on a couplet or two, 
impromptu. She repeated one or two to the ad- 
miration of all present. My suffrage as a pro- 
fessional man, was expected : I for once went 
agonizing over the belly of my conscience. 
Pardon me, ye my adored household gods, inde- 
pendence of spirit, and integrity of soul ! In the 
course of conversation, " Johnson's Musical 
Museum," a collection of Scottish songs with 
the music, was talked of. We got a song on 
the harpsichord, beginning, 

'« Raving winds around her blowing."! 

The air was much admired : the lady of the 
house asked me whose were the words. " Mine, 
Madam — they are indeed my very best verses ;" 



she took not the smallest notice of them ! The 
old Scottish proverb says well, " king's caff is 
better than ither folks' corn." I was going to 
make a New Testament quotation about " cast- 
ing pearls," but that would" bo too virulent, for 
the lady is actually a woman of sense and 
taste. 

After all that has been said on the other side 
of the question, man is by no means a happy 
creature. I do not speak of the selected few, 
favoured by partial heaven, whose souls are 
tuned to gladness amid riches and honours, 
and prudence and wisdom. I speak of the neg- 
lected many, whose nerves, whose sinews, 
whose days are sold to the minions of fortune. 

If I thought you had never seen it, I would 
transcribe for you a stanza of an old Scottish 
ballad, called, " The Life and Age of Man ;"' 
beginning thus : 

" 'Twas in the sixteenth hunder year 
Of Ood and fifty-three, 
Frae Christ was born, that bought us dear, 
As writings testifie." 

I had an old grand-uncle, with whom my mo- 
ther lived awhile in her girlish years ; the good 
old man, for such he was, was long blind ere he 
died, during which time his highest enjoyment 
was to sit down and cry, while my mother would 
sing the simple old song of " the Life and Age 
of Man." 

It is this way of thinking; it is these melan- 
choly truths, that make religion so precious to 
the poor, miserable children of men. — If it is a 
mere phantom, existing only in the heated ima- 
gination of enthusiasm, 

" What truth on earth so precious as a lie." 

My idle reasonings sometimes make me a 
little sceptical, but the necessities of my heart 
always give the cold philosophisings the lie. 
Who looks for the heart weaned from earth ; 
the soul affianced to her God: the correspondence 
fixed with heaven ; the pious supplication and 
devout thanksgiving, constant as the vicissitudes 
of even and morn ; who thinks to meet with 
these in the court, the palace, in the glare cf 
public life ? No: to find them in their precious 
importance and divine efficacy, we must search 
among the obscure recesses of disappointment, 
affliction, poverty, and distress. 

I am sure, dear Madam, you are now more 
than pleased with the length of my letters. I 
return to Ayrshire middle of next week : and it 
quickens my pace to think that there will be a 
letter from you waiting me there. I must 
be here again very foon for my harvest. 

KB. 



296 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



CXXX1II. 

ENORAVEK, EDINBURGH. 



[Mr lieugo was a wcll-krown engraver in Edinburgh: he eu= 
Itaved N'asmyth's portrait of Burns, for Creech's first edition of his 
Poems , and as he could draw a little, he improved, as he called it, 
ihe engraving from sittings of the poet, and made it a little more 
Lke, and a little less poetic] 

Ellisland, 9 th Sept. 1788. 
My dear Siitj 

There is not in Edinburgh above the number 
of the graces whose letters would have given 
me so much pleasure as yours of the 3d instant, 
which only reached me yesternight. 

I am here on the farm, busy with my harvest ; 
but for all that most pleasurable part of life 
called social communication, I am here at 
the very elbow of existence. The only things 
that are to be found in this country, in any de- 
gree of perfection, are stupidity and canting. 
Prose they only know in graces, prayers, &c, 
and the value of these they estimate as they do 
their plaiding webs — by the ell ! As for the 
muses, they have as much an idea of a rhino- 
ceros as of a poet. For my old capricious but 
good-natured huzzy of a muse — 

" By banks of Nith I sat and wept 
When Coila 1 thought on, 
In midst thereof I hung my harp 
The willow-trees upon." 

I am generally about half my time in Ayrshire 
with my " darling Jean," and then I, at lucid 
intervals, throw my horny fist across my be- 
cobwebbed lyre, much in the same manner as 
an old wife throws her hand across the spokes 
of her spinning- wheel. 

I wiD send you the " Fortunate Shepherd- 
ess" as soon as I return to Ayrshire, for there I 
keep it with other precious treasure. I shall send 
it by a careful hand, as I would not for any 
thing it should be mislaid or lost. I do not 
wish to serve you from any benevolence, or 
other grave Christian virtue ; 'tis purely a self- 
ish gratification of my own feelings whenever I 
think of you. 

If your better functions would give you lei- 
sure to write me, I should be extremely happy ; 
that is to say, if you neither keep nor look for a 
regular correspondence. I hate the idea of 
being obliged to write a letter. I sometimes 
write a friend twice a week, at Gther times once 
a quarter. 

I am exceedingly pleased with your fancy in 
making the author you mention place a map of 
Iceland instead of his portrait before his works: 
'twas a glorious idea. 

Could you conveniently do me one thing ? — 
whenever you finish any head I should like to 
have a proof copy of it. I might tell you a long 
story about your fine genius ; but as what every 
body knows cannot have escaped you, I shall 
not say one syllable about it. 

R.B 



CXXXIY 

EDINBURGH. 



[To this fine letter all the biographers of Bains, 
debted.J 



e largd/ in- 



Ellisland, near Dumfries, Sept. 16, 1788. 
Where are you ? and how are you ? and is 
Lady Mackenzie recovering her health ? for I 
have had but one solitary letter from you. I will 
not think you have forgot me, Madam ; and for 
my part — ■ 

" When thee, Jerusalem. I forget, 
Skill part from my right hand!" 

" My heart is not of that rock, nor my soul 
careless as that sea." I do not make my progress 
among mankind as a bowl does among its fel- 
lows — rolling through the crowd without bear- 
ing away any mark of impression, except where 
they hit in hostile collision. 

I am here, driven in with my harvest-folks 
by bad weather ; and as you and your sister 
once did me the honour of interesting your- 
selves much a Vegard de moi, I sit down to beg 
the continuation of your goodness. I can truly 
say that, all the exterior of life apart, I never 
saw two, whose esteem flattered the nobler feel- 
ings of my soul — I will not say more, but so 
much as Lady Mackenzie and Miss Chalmers. 
When I think of you — hearts the best, minds 
the noblest of human kind — unfortunate even 
in the shades of life — when I think I have met 
with you, and have lived more of real life with 
you in eight days than I can do with almost any 
body I meet with in eight years — when I think 
on the improbability of meeting you in this 
world again — I could sit down and cry like a 
child ! If ever you honoured me with a place 
in your esteem, I trust I can now plead more 
desert. I am secure against that crushing grip 
of iron poverty, which, alas! is less or more 
fatal to the native worth and purity of, I fear, 
the noblest souls ; and a late important step in 
my life has kindly taken me out of the way of 
those ungrateful iniquities, which, however 
overlooked in fashionable licence, or varnished 
in fashionable phrase, are indeed but lighter and 
deeper shades of villany. 

Shortly after my last return to Ayrshire, I 
married "my Jean." This was not in conse- 
quence of the attachment of romance, perhaps; 
but I had a long and much-loved fellow-crea- 
ture's happiness, or misery in my determination, 
and I durst not trifle with so important a de- 
posit. Nor have I any cause to repent it. If I 
have not got polite tattle, modish manners, and 
fashionable dress, I am not sickened and dis- 
gusted with the multiform curse of boarding- 
school affectation : and I have got the hand- 
somest figure, the sweetest temper, the soundest 
constitution, and the kindest heart in the county 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



2fc7 



Mrs. Burns believes, as firmly as her creed, that 
t am le plus bel esprit, et le plus honrutehomme in 
the universe ; although she scarcely ever in her 
life, except the Scriptures of the Old and New 
Testament, and the Psalms of David in metre, 
spent five minutes together either on prose or 
verse. I must except also from this last a cer- 
tain late publication of Scot's poems, which she 
has perused very devoutly ; and all the ballads 
hi the country, as she has (O the partial lover ! 
you will cry) the finest " wood note wild" I 
ever heard. I am the more particular in this 
lady's character, as I know she will henceforth 
have the honour of a share in your best wishes. 
She is still at Mauchliue, as I am building my 
house; for this hovel that I shelter in, while 
occasionally here, is pervious to every blast that 
blows, and every shower that falls ; and I am 
only preserved from being chilled to death by 
being suffocated with smoke. 1 do not find my 
farm that pennyworth I was taught to expect, 
but I believe, in time, it may be a saving bar- 
gain. You will be pleased to hear that I have 
laid aside idle eclat, and bind every day after my 
reapers. 

To save me from that horrid situation of 
at any time going down in a losing bargain of 
a farm, to misery, I have taken my Excise in- 
structions, and have my commission in my 
pocket for any emergency of fortune. If I could 
set all before your view, whatever disrespect 
you, in common with the world, have for this 
business, I know you would approve of my 
idea. 

I will make no apology, dear Madam, for this 
egotistic detail ; I know you and your sister will 
be interested in every circumstance of it. 
What signify the silly, idle gewgaws of wealth, 
or the ideal trumpery of greatness ! When fel- 
low-partakers of the same nature fear the same 
God, have the same benevolence of heart, 
the same nobleness of soul, the same de- 
testation at every thing dishonest, and the 
same scorn at every thing unworthy — if they 
are not in the dependence of absolute beggary, 
in the name of common sense are they not 
equals ? And if the bias, the instinctive bias, 
of their souls run the same way, why may they 
not be friends ? 

When I may have an opportunity of sending 
you this, Heaven only knows. Shenstone says, 
" When one is confined idle within doors by 
bad weather, the best antidote against ennui 
is to read the letters of, or write to, one's 
friends ;" in that case then, if the weather con- 
tinues thus, I may scrawl you half a quire. 

I very lately — to wit, since harvest began — 
wrote a poem, not in imitation, but in the man- 
ner, of Pope's Moral Epistles. It is only a short 
essay, just to try the strength of my muse's 
pinion in that way. I will send you a copy of 
it, when once I have heard from you. I have 
likewise been laying the foundation of some 
pretty large poetic works : how the superstruc- 
ture will come on, I leave to that great maker 



and marrer of projects — time. Johnson's col- 
lection of Scots songs is going on in the third 
volume; and, of consequence, finds me a con- 
sumpt for a great deal of idle metre. One ot 
the most tolerable things I have done in that 
way is two stanzas I made to an air, a musical 
gentleman of my acquaintance composed for the 
anniversary of his wedding-day, which happens 
on the seventh of November. Take it as fol- 
lows : — 

" The day returns— my bosom burns, 
The blissful day we twa did meet," &c. l 

I shall give over this letter for shame. If I 
should be seized with a scribbling fit, before 
this goes away, I shall make it another letter ; 
and then you may allow your patience a week's 
respite between the two. I have not room for 
more than the old, kind, hearty farewell. 

To make some amends, mes cheres Mesdames, 
for dragging you on to this second sheet, and 
to relieve a little the tiresomeness of my unstu- 
died and uncorrectible prose, I shall tran- 
scribe you some of my late poetic bagatelles , 
though I have these eight or ten months, done 
very little that way. One day in a hermitage 
on the banks of Nith, belonging to a gentleman 
in my neighbourhood, who is so good as give 
me a key at pleasure, I wrote as follows ; sup 
posing myself the sequestered, venerable inha- 
bitant of the lonely mansion. 

LINES WRITTEN IN FRIAR's-CARSE 
HERMITAGE. 



" Thou whom chance may hither lead, 
Be thou clad in russet weed." 2 



R.B. 



cxxxv. 

MAUCHLINE. 



(Morison, of Mauchline, made most of th° poet's furniture, tot 
Ellisland: from Mauchline, too, came that eight-day clock, which 
was sold, at the death of the poet's widow, for thirty-eight pounds, to 
one who would have paid one hundred, sooner than wanted it. 



Ellisland, September 22, 1788. 
My dear Sir, 
Necessity obliges me to go into my new 
house even before it be plastered. I will inha- 
bit the one end until the other is finished. 
About three weeks more, I think, will at far- 
thest be my time, beyond which I cannot stay 
in this present house. If ever you wished to 
deserve the blessing of him that was ready to 
perish ; if ever you were in a situation that a 
little kindness would have rescued you from 



2 Poems tfSLXXIX.and XC 

4 a 



298 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



many evils ; if ever you hope to find rest in fu- 
ture states of untried being — get these matters 
of mine ready. My servant will be out in the 
beginning of next week for the clock. My 
compliments to Mrs. Moris on. 
I am. 

After all my tribulation, 

Dear Sir, yours, 

R.B. 



CXXXVI. 

OF DUNLOP. 



[ Barns had no great respect for critics who found blemishes with- 
out perceiving beauties: he expresses his contempt for such in this 
letter.] 



Mauchline, 27 th Sept. 1788. 

I have received twins, dear Madam, more 
than once ; but scarcely ever with more plea- 
sure than when I received yours of the 12th 
instant. To make myself understood; I 
had wrote to Mr. Graham, enclosing my poem 
addressed to him, and the same post which fa- 
voured me with yours brought me an answer 
from him. It was dated the very day he had 
received mine ; and I am quite at a loss to say 
whether it'was most polite or kind. 

Your criticisms, my honoured benefactress, 
are truly the work of a friend. They are not 
the blasting depredations of a canker-toothed, 
caterpillar critic ; nor are they the fair state- 
ment of cold impartiality, balancing with un- 
feeling exactitude the pro and con of an author's 
merits ; they are the judicious observations of 
animated friendship, selecting the beauties of 
the piece. I have just arrived from Nithsdale, 
and will be here a fortnight. I was on horse- 
back this morning by three o'clock ; for between 
my wife and my farm is just forty-six miles. 
As I jogged on in the dark, I was taken with a 
poetic fit as follows : 

" Mrs. Ferguson of Craigdarroch's lamenta- 
tion for the death of her son ; an uncommonly 
promising youth of eighteen or nineteen years 
of age. 

" Fate gave the word — the arrow sped, 
And pierced my darling's heart." * 

You will not send me your poetic rambles, 
but, you see, I am no niggard of mine. I am 
sure your impromptus give me double pleasure; 
what falls from your pen can neither be unen- 
tertaining in itself, nor indifferent to me. 

The one fault you found, is just ; but I can- 
not please myself in an emendation. 

What a life of solicitude is the life of a parent ! 
Yon interested me much in your young couple. 



I would not take my folio paper for this epis- 
tle, and now I repent it. I am so jaded with 
my dirty long journey that I was afraid to 
drawl into the essence of dulness with any 
tiling larger than a quarto, and so I must leave 
out another rhyme of this morning's manufac- 
ture. 

I will pay the sapientipoent George most 
cheerfully, to hear from you ere I leave Ayr- 
shire. 

R. B. 



CXXXY1I. 
2To i&r, tfcttr&W- 



['"The 'Address to Lochlomond,' which this letter criticises,'* 
says Currie in lfiOO, "ivas written by a gentleman, now one of the 
masters of the High-school of Edinburgh, and the same who trans- 
lated the beautiful story of • The Paria,' published in the Bee of Dr. 
Anderson.".) 

Mauchline, 1st October, 1788. 
I have been here in this country about three 
days, and all that time my chief reading has 
been the " Address to Lochlomond" you were 
so obliging as to send to me. "Were I impan- 
nelled one of the author's jury, to determine 
his criminality respecting the sin of poesy, my 
verdict should be " guilty ! a poet of nature's 
making ?' ; It is an excellent method for im- 
provement, and what I believe every poet does, to 
place some favourite classic author in his own 
walks of study and composition, before him as 
a model. Though your author had not men- 
tioned the name, I could have, at half a glance, 
guessed his model to be Thomson. Will my 
brother-poet forgive me, if I venture to hint 
that his imitation of that immortal bard is in 
two or three places rather more servile than 
such a genius as his required : — e. g. 

" To soothe the maddening passions all to peace." 

Address. 



I think the " Address" is in simplicity, nar- 
mony, and elegance of versification, fully equal 
to the " Seasons." Like Thomson, too, he has 
looked into nature for himself: you meet with no 
copied description. One particular criticism I 
made at first reading ; in no one instance has 
he said too much. He never flags in his pro- 
gress, but, like a true poet of nature's making 
kindles in his course. His beginning is simple 
and modest, as if distrustful of the strength of 
his pinion ; only, I do not altogether like — 

The soul of every song that's nobly great." 

Fiction is the soul of many a song that is 
nobly great. Perhaps I am wrong : this may 
be but a prose criticism. Is not the phrase, in 
line 7? page 6, "Great lake," too much vulga- 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



2f)if 



aaad by every-day language for so sublime a 
poem ? 

" Great mass of waters, theme for nobler song," 

is perhaps no emendation. His enumeration of 
a comparison with other lakes is at once har- 
monious and poetic. Every reader's ideas must 
sweep the 

" Winding margin of an hundred miles." 

The perspective that follows mountains bine 
— the imprisoned billows beating in vain — the 
wooded isles — the digression on the yew-tree — 
" 13en-lomond's lofty, cloud-envelop 'd head," &o. 
are beautiful. A thunder-storm is a subject 
which has been often tried, yet our poet in his 
grand picture has interjected a circumstance, so 
far as I know, entirely original : — 



' the gloom 



Deep seam'd with frequent streaks of moving fire," 

In his preface to the Storm, " the glens how 
dark between," is noble highland landscape ! 
The " rain ploughing the red mould," too, is 
beautifully fancied. " Ben-lomond's lofty, path- 
less top," is a good expression; and the sur- 
rounding view from it is truly great : the 

" silver mist, 

Beneath the beaming sun," 

is well described ; and here he has contrived to 
enliven his poem with a little of that passion 
which bids fair, I think, to usurp the modern 
muses altogether. I know not how far this 
episode is a beauty upon the whole, but the 
swain's wish to carry " some faint idea of the 
vision bright,''' to entertain her " partial lis- 
tening ear," is a pretty thought. But in my 
opinion the most beautiful passages in the whole 
poem are the fowls crowding, in wintry frosts, 
to Lochlomond's u hospitable flood ;" their 
wheeling round, their lighting, mixing, diving, 
&c. ; and the glorious description of the sports- 
man. This last is equal to any thing in the 
" Seasons." The idea of " the floating tribe 
distant seen, far glistering to the moon," 
provoking his eye as he is obliged to leave them, 
is a noble ray of poetic genius. " The howling 
winds," the " hideous roar" of the " white cas- 
cades," are all in the same style. 

I forget that while 1 am thus holding forth 
with the heedless warmth of an enthusiast, I 
am perhaps tiring you with nonsense. I must, 
however, mention that the last verse of the 
sixteenth page is one of the most elegant 
compliments I have ever seen. I must like- 
wise notice that beautiful paragraph beginning, 
" The gleaming lake," &c. I dare not go into 
the particular beauties of the last two para- 
graphs, but they are admirably fine, and truly 
Ossianic. 

I must beg your pardon for this lengthened 
scrawl. I had no idea of it when I began — I 
should like to know who the author is ; but, 
whoever he be, please present him with my 
grateful thanks for the entertainment he has af- 
forded me . 



A friend of mine desired me to commission 
for him two books, '' Letters on the Religion 
essential to Man," a book you sent me before, 
and "The World unmasked, or the Philosopher 
the greatest Cheat." Send me them by the first 
opportunity. The Bible you sent me is truly 
elegant ; I only wish it had been in two vo- 
lumes. 

It. B. 



CXXXVIII. 
%o Ifjc editor of "Ci)e j&tai." 



[The clergyman who preached the sermon which this letter con- 
demns, was a man equally worthy and stern — a divine of Scot- 
land's elder day: he rectived "a harmonious call" to a smallei 
stipend than that of Dunscore — and accepted it.J 

November 8th, 1783. 
Sir, 

Notwithstanding the opprobious epithets 
with which some of our philosophers and gloomy 
sectarians have branded our nature — the prin- 
ciple of uuiversal selfishness, the proneness to 
all evil, they have given us ; still the detesta- 
tion in which inhumanity to the distressed, or 
insolence to the fallen, are held by all mankind, 
shows that they are not natives of the human 
heart. Even the unhappy partner of our kind, 
who is undone, the bitter consequence of his 
follies or his crimes, who but sympathizes with 
the miseries of this ruined profligate brother * 
We forget the injuries, and feel for the man. 

I went, last Wednesday, to my parish church, 
most cordially to join in grateful acknowledg- 
ment to the Author or all Good, for the 
consequent blessings of the glorious revolution. 
To that auspicious event we owe no less than 
our liberties, civil and religious ; to it we are 
likewise indebted for the present Royal Family, 
the ruling features of whose administration 
have ever been mildness to the subject, and 
tenderness of his rights. 

Bred and educated in revolution principles 
the principles of reason and common sense, it 
could not be any silly political prejudice which 
made my heart revolt at the harsh abusive man- 
ner in which the reverend gentleman mentioned 
the House of Stewart, and which, I am afraid 
Avas too much the language of the day. We 
may rejoice sufficiently in our deKverance from 
past evils, -without cruelly raking up the ashes of 
those whose misfortune it was, perhaps as much 
as their crime, to be the authors of those evils; 
and we may bless God for all his goodness 
to us as a nation, without at the same time 
cursing a few ruined, powerless exiles, who 
only harboured ideas, and made attempts, that 
most of us would have done, had we been in 
their situation. 

" The bloody and tyrannical House of Stew- 
art" may be said with propriety and justica 
when compared with the present roval family, 



300 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



and the sentiments of our days; but is there 
no allowance to be made for the manners of 
the times ? Were the royal contemporaries of 
the Stewarts more attentive to their subjects* 
rights ? Might not the epithets of " bloody and 
tyrannical" be, with at least equal justice, ap- 
plied to the House of Tudor, of York, or any 
other of their predecessors ? 

The simple state of the case, Sir, seems to be 
this: — At that period, the science of govern- 
ment, the knowledge of the true relation be- 
tween king and subject, was like other sciences 
and other knowledge, just in its infancy, 
emerging from dark ages of ignorance and bar- 
barity. 

The Stewarts only contended for prerogatives 
which they knew their predecessors enjoyed, 
and which they saw their contemporaries enjoy- 
ing ; but these prerogatives were inimical to 
the happiness of a nation and the rights of sub- 
jects. 

In this contest between prince and people, 
the consequence of that light of science which 
had lately dawned over Europe, the monarch of 
France, for example, was victorious over the 
struggling liberties of his people: with us, luckily 
the monarch failed, and his unwarrantable pre- 
tensionsfella sacrifice to our rights and happiness. 
Whether it was owing to the wisdom of leading 
individuals, or to the justling of parties, I cannot 
pretend to determine; but likewise happily for 
us, the kingly power was shifted into another 
branch of the family, who, as they owed the 
throne solely to the call of a free people, could 
claim nothing inconsistent with the covenanted 
terms which placed them there. 

The Stewarts have been condemned and 
laughed at for the folly and impracticability 
of their attempts in 1715 and 1745. That they 
failed, I bless God; but cannot join in the 
ridicule against them. Who does not know 
that the abilities or defects of leaders and com- 
manders are often hidden until put to the touch- 
stone of exigency ; and that there is a caprice 
of fortune, an omnipotence in particular ac- 
cidents and conjunctures of circumstances, 
which exalt us as heroes, or brand us as madmen, 
Just as they are for or against us ? 

Man j Mr. Publisher, is a strange, weak, in- 
consistent being ; who would believe, Sir, that 
in this our Augustan age of liberality and re- 
finement, while we seem so justly sensible and 
jealous of our rights and liberties, and animated, 
with such indignation against the very memory 
of those who would have subverted them — that 
a certain people under our national protection 
should complain, not against our monarch and 
a few favourite advisers, but against our whole 
legislative body, for similar oppression, and 
almost in the very same terms, as our forefa- 
thers did of the house of Stewart! I will not, 
I cannot enter into the merits of the cause; but 
I dare say the American Congress, in 1776, will 
bo allowed to be as able and as enlightened as 
the English Convention was in 1688 , and that 



their posterity will celebrate the centenary of 
their deliverance from us, as duly and sincerely 
as we do ours from the oppressive measures of 
the wrong-headed House of Stewart. 

To conclude, Sir ; let every man who has a 
tear for the many miseries incident to humanity, 
feel for a family illustrious as any in Europe, 
and unfortunate beyond historic precedent ; and 
let every Briton (and particularly every Scots- 
man,) whoever looked with reverential pity on 
the dotage of a parent, cast a veil over the fatal 
mistakes of the kings of his forefathers. 

R.B. 



CXXXIX, 
% o $&x$. dunlop, 

AT MORE HAM MAINS. 



[The heifer presented to the poet by the Dunlops was bought, at 
the sale of Ellisland stock, by Miller of Dalswinton, and longgrazed 
the pastures in his " policies" by the name of " Burns."] 

Mauchline, 13th November, 1788. 
Madam, 

I had the very great pleasure of dining at 
Dunlop yesterday. Men are said to flatter wo- 
men because they are weak; if it is so, poets 
must be weaker still ; for Misses B, and K. and 
Miss (x. M'K. with their flattering attentions, 
and artful compliments, absolutely turned my 
head. I own they did not lard me over as 
many a poet does his patron, but they so intoxi- 
cated me with their sly insinuations and deli- 
cate inuendos of compliment, that if it had not 
been for a lucky recollection, how much addi- 
tional weight and lustre your good opinion and 
friendship must give me in that circle, I had 
certainly looked upon myself as a person of no 
small consequence. I dare not say one word 
how much I was charmed with the Major's 
friendly welcome, elegant manner, and acute re- 
mark, lest I should be thought to overbalance my 
orientalisms of applause over-against the finest 
quey 1 in Ayrshire, which he made me a present 
of to help and adorn my farm-stock. As it was 
on hallow-day, I am determined annually, as 
that day returns, to decorate her horns with an 
ode of gratitude to the family of Dunlop. 

So soon as I know of your arrival at Dunlop, 
I will take the first conveniency to dedicate a 
day, or perhaps two, to you and friendship, 
under the guarantee of the Major's hospitality. 
There will soon be three score and ten miles of 
permanent distance between us ; and now that 
your friendship and friendly correspondence is 
en twisted with the heart-strings of my enjoy- 
ment of life, I must indulge myself in a happy 
day of " The feast of reason and the flow of 
soul." 

R. B. 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



301 



CXL. 

To 0lx, ^ameg Johnson, 



ENGRAVER. 



f James Johnson, though not an ungenerous man, meanly refused 
tt> give a copy of rhe Musical Museum to Hums, who desired to he- 
Stow it on one to whom his family was deeply indebted. This was 
in the last year of the poet's life, and after the Museum had been 
brightened by so much of his lyric verse.] 



Mauchline, November Ibth, 1788. 

My dear Sir, 

I have sent you two more songs. If you have 
got any tunes, or any thing to correct, please 
send them by return of the carrier. 

I can easily see, my dear friend, that you will 
very probably have four volumes. Perhaps you 
may not find your account lucratively in this 
business ; but you are a patriot for the music of 
your country ; and I am certain posterity will 
look on themselves as highly indebted to your 
public spirit. Be not in a hurry ; let us go on 
correctly, and your name shall be immortal. 

I am preparing a flaming preface for your third 
volume. I see every day new musical publica- 
tions advertised ; but what are they ? Gaudy, 
hunted butterflies of a day, and then vanish for 
ever : but your work will outlive the momentary 
neglects of idle fashion, and defy the teeth of 
time. 

Have you never a fair goddess that leads you 
a Avild-goose chase of amorous devotion ? Let 
me know a few of her qualities, such as whether 
she be rather black, or fair ; plump, or thin ; 
short, or tall, &c. ; and choose your air, and I 
shall task my muse to celebrate her. 

R. B. 



CXTJ. 
fto Br. 2fHacfeloc&. 



| Blacklock, though blind, was a cheerful and good man. •' There 
was perhaps never one among all mankind," says Heron, •* whom 
von might more truly have railed an angel upon earth."] 



Mauchline, November 15th, 1788. 
Reverend and dear Sir, 

As I hear nothing of your motions, but that 
you are, or were, out of town, I do not know 
where this may find you, or whether it will find 
you at all. I wrote you along letter, dated from 
the land of matrimony, in June ; but either it 
had not found you, or, what I dread more, it 
found you or Mrs. Blacklock in too precarious a 
state of health and spirits to take notice of an 
idle packet. 

I have done many little things for Johnson, 
since I had the pleasure of seeing you ; and I 



have finished one piece, in the way of Pope's 
"Moral Epistles;" but, from your silence, I 
have every thing to fear, so I have only sent you 
two melancholy things, which I tremble lest 
they should too well suit the tone of your present 
feelings. 

In a fortnight I move, bag and baggage, to 
Nithsdale; till then, my direction is at this 
place; after that period, it will be at Elusland, 
near Dumfries. It would extremely oblige me 
were it but half a line, to let me know how you 
are, and where you are. Can I be indifferent to 
the fate of a man to whom I owe so much ? A 
man whom I not only esteem, but venerate. 

My warmest good wishes and most respectful 
compliments to Mrs. Blacklock, and Miss John- 
ston, if she is with you. 

I cannot conclude without telling you that I 
am more and more pleased with the step I took 
respecting "my Jean." Two things, from my 
happy experience, I set down as apothegms in 
life. A wife's head is immaterial, compared 
with her heart ; and — " Virtue's (for wisdom 
what poet pretends to it ?) ways are ways of 
pleasantness, and all her paths are peace/' 
Adieu ! 

R. B. 

[Here follow " The Mother's Lament for the Loss of her Son," and 
the song beginning " The lazy mist hangs from the orow of tiie 
hill,"] 



CXLII. 
2To 0Lx$. SJunlop. 



[The *• Auld lang syne,' which Burns here introduces to M is 
Dunlop as a strain of the olden time, is as surely his own as Tam-o 
Shanter.] 

Ellisland, \*lth December, 1788. 
My dear honoured Friend, 
Yours, dated Edinburgh, which I have just 
read, makes me very unhappy. " Almost blind 
and wholly deaf," are melancholy news of human 
nature; but when told of a much-loved and 
honoured friend, they carry misery in the sound. 
Goodness on your part, and gratitude on mine, 
began a tie which has gradually entwisted itself 
among the dearest chords of my bosom, and I 
tremble at the omeus of your late and present 
ailing habit and shattered health. You miscal- 
culate matters widely, when you forbid my wait- 
ing on you, lest it should hurt my worldly con- 
cerns. My small scale of farming is exceedingly 
more simple and easy than what you have lately 
seen at Moreham Mains. But, be that as it may, 
the heart of the man and the fancy of the poet 
are the two grand considerations for which I 
live : if miry ridges and dirty dunghills are to 
engross the best part of the functions of my soul 
immortal, I had better been a rook or a magpie 
at once, and then I should not have been plagued 
4 a 



30*2 



G FINE R A L CO R.RRSPON DENC F 



with any ideas superior to breaking of clods and 
picking up grubs; not to mention barn-door 
cocks or mallards, creatures with which I could 
almost exchange lives at any time. If you con- 
tinue so deaf, 1 am afraid a visit will be no great 
pleasure to cither of us ; but if I hear you are got 
so well again as to be able to relish conversation, 
look you to it, Madam, for I will make my 
threatenings good. I am to be at the New-year- 
day fair of Ayr ; and, by all that is sacred in the 
world, friend, I will come and see you. 

Your meeting, which you so well describe, 
with your old schoolfellow and friend, was truly 
interesting. Out upon the ways of the world! — 
They spoil these " social offspring of the heart." 
Two veterans of the "men of the world" would 
have met with little more heart-workings than 
two old hacks worn out on the road. Apropos, 
is not the Scotch phrase, " Auld lang syne," 
exceedingly expressive ? There is an old song 
and tune which has often thrilled through my 
soul. You know I am an enthusiast in old 
Scotch songs. I shall give you the verses on 
the other sheet, as I suppose Mr. Ker will save 
you the postage. 

" Should auld acquaintance be forgot !" 1 

Light be the turf on the breast of the heaven- 
inspired poet who composed this glorious frag- 
ment. There is more of the fire of native genius 
in it than in half-a-dozen of modern English 
Bacchanalians ! Now I am on my hobby-horse, 
I cannot help inserting two other old stanzas, 
which please me mightily: — 



" Go fetch to me a pint of wine." 2 



R. B. 



CXLIII. 
2To Jftfeg babies. 



[The Laird of Glenriddel informed " the charming, lovely 
Davies"that Burns was composing a song in her praise the poet 
acred on this, and sent the song, enclosed in this characteristic letter.] 

December, 1788. 
Madam, 
I understand my very worthy neighbour, 
Mr. Riddel, has informed you that I have made 
you the subject of some verses. There is some- 
thing so provoking in the idea of being the bur- 
then of a ballad, that I do not think Job or 
Moses, though such patterns of patience and 
meekness, could have resisted the curiosity to 
know what that ballad was: so my worthy 
friend has done me a mischief, which I dare say 
he never intended ; and reduced me to the un- 
fortunate alternative of leaving your curiosity 
ungratined, or else disgusting you with foolish 



verses, the unfinished production of a random 
moment, and never meant to have met your ear. 
I have heard or read somewhere of a gentleman 
who had some genius, much eccentricity, and 
very considerable dexterity with his pencil. In 
the accidental group of life into which one is 
thrown, wherever this gentleman met with a 
character in a more than ordinary degree con- 
genial to his heart, he used to steal a sketch of 
the face, merely, he said, as a ncla bene, to point 
out the agreeable recollection to his memory. 
What this gentleman's pencil was to him, my 
muse is to me ; and the verses I do myself the 
honour to send you are a memento exactly of the 
same kind that he indulged in. 

It may be more owing to the fastidiousness of 
my caprice than the delicacy of my taste ; but I 
am so often tired, disgusted, and hurt with the 
insipidity, affectation, and pride of mankind, 
that when I meet with a person " after my own 
heart," I positively feel what an orthodox Pro- 
testant would call a species of idolatry, which 
acts on my fancy like inspiration ; and I can no 
more desist rhyming on the impulse, than an 
iEolian harp can refuse its tones to the streaming 
air. A distich or two would be the consequence, 
though the object which hit my fancy were gray- 
bearded age ; but where my theme is youth and 
beauty, a young lady whose personal charms, 
wit, and sentiment are equally striking and un- 
affected — by heavens ! though I had lived three 
score years a married man, and three score years 
before I was a married man, my imagination 
would hallow the very idea: and I am truly 
sorry that the inclosed stanzas have done such 
poorjusti.ee to such a subject. 

R. B, 



CXLIV. 
&o 0Lv. gjofm fcknnant. 



[The mill of John Currie stood on a small stream which fed the 
loch of Friar's-Carse — near the house of the dame of whom he sang, 
" Sic a wife as Willie had."J 

December 22, 1788. 
I yesterday tried my cask of Avhiskey for the 
first time, and I assure you it does you great 
credit. It will bear five waters, strong ; or six, 
ordinary toddy. The whiskey of this country is 
a most rascally liquor; and, by consequence, 
only drank by the most rascally part of the in- 
habitants. 1 am persuaded, if you once get a 
footing here, you might do a great deal of busi- 
ness, in the way of consumpt ; and should you 
commence distiller again, this is the native bar- 
ley country. I am ignorant if, in your present 
May of dealing, you would think it worth your 
while to extend your business so far as this 
country side. I write you this on the account 
of an accident, which I must take the -merit of 
having partly designed to. A neighbour of mine 



OF ROBERT HUHNS 



.'^0.3 



a John (Jurrie, miller in Carse-mill — a man who 
is. in a Avord, a "very" good man, even for a 
£500 bargain — he and. his wife were in my house 
the time I broke open the cask. They keep a 
country public-house and sell a great deal of 
foreign spirits, but all along thought that whis- 
key would have degraded this house. They 
were perfectly astonished at my whiskey, both 
for its taste and strength ; and, by their desire, 
I write you to know if you could supply them 
with liquor of an equal quality, and what price. 
Please Avrite me by first post, and direct to me 
at Ellisland, near Dumfries. If you coidd take 
a jaunt this way yourself, I have a spare spoon, 
knife and fork very much at your service. My 
compliments to Mrs. Tennant, and all the good 
folks in Glenconnel and Barquharrie. 

R. B. 



CXLV 

Zo i$trs. SEhmlop. 



| The feeling mood of moral reflection exhibited in the follow- 
ing letter, was common to the house of William Burns: in a letter 
addressed bv Gilbert to Robert of this date, the poet is reminded of 
the early vicissitudes of their name, and desired to look up, and be 
thankful.] 

Ellisland, New-year-day Morning, 1789. 

This, dear Madam, is a morning of wishes, 
and would to God that I came under the apostle 
James's description ! — the prayer of a righteous 
man availeth much. In that case, Madam, you 
should welcome in a year full of blessings: 
every thing that obstructs or disturbs tranquil- 
lity and self-enjoyment, should be removed, and 
every pleasure that frail humanity can taste, 
should be yours. I own myself so little a Pres- 
byterian, that I approve of set times and sea- 
sons of more than ordinary acts of devotion, 
for breaking in on that habitual routine of life 
and thought, which is so apt to reduce our exist- 
ence to a kind of instinct, or even sometimes, 
and with some minds, to a state very little su- 
perior to mere machinery. 

This day, the first Sunday of May, a breezy, 
blue-skyed noon some time about the beginning, 
and a hoary morning and calm sunny day about 
the end, of autumn ; these, time out of mind, 
have been with me a kind of holiday. 

I believe I owe this to that glorious pa.;er in 
the Spectator, " The Vision of Mirza," ' a piece 
that struck my young fancy before I was capa- 
ble of fixing an idea to a word of three syllables : 
" On the 5th day of the moon, which, according 
to the custom of my forefathers, I always keep 
holy, after having washed myself, and offered up 
my morning devotions, I ascended the high hill 
of Bagdat, in order to pass the rest of the day 
in meditation and prayer." 

We know nothing, or next to nothing, of the 
substance or structure of our souls, so cannot ac- 



count for those seeming caprices in them, that 
one should be particularly pleased with this 
thing, or struck with that, which, on minds of a 
different cast, makes no extraordinary impres- 
sion. I have some favourite flowers in spring, 
among which are the mountain-daisy, the hare- 
bell, the fox-glove, the wild brier-rose, the bud- 
ding birch, and the hoary hawthorn, that I view 
and hang over with particular delight. I never 
hear the loud solitary whistle of the curlew in a 
summer noon, or the wild mixing cadence of a 
troop of grey plovers, in an autumnal morning, 
without feeling an elevation of soul like the en- 
thusiasm of devotion or poetry. Tell me, my 
dear friend, to what can this be owing? Are Ave 
a piece of machinery, which, like the iEolian 
harp, passive, takes the impression of the pass- 
ing accident? Or do these workings argue 
something within us above the trodden clod ? 
I OAvn myself partial to such proofs of those 
aAvful and important realities — a God that made 
all things — man's immaterial and immortal na- 
ture — and a world of weal or Avoe beyond death 
and the grave. 

R. B. 



cxLvr. 



[The poet seems, in this lettter, to perceive that Kllislana was not 
the bargain he had reckoned it: he int'rr.ated, ai the leader will re- 
member, something of the same kind to Margaret Chalmers.] 



Ellisland, Alh Jan. 1789. 
Sir, 

As often as I think of writing to you, which 
has been three or four times every Aveek these 
six months, it gives me something so like the 
idea of an ordinary-sized statue offering at a 
conversation Avith the Rhodian colossus, that my 
mind misgives me, and the affair always mis- 
carries somewhere betAveen purpose and re- 
solve. I have at last got some business with 
you, and business letters are written by the style- 
book. I say my business is with you, Sir, for 
you never had any with me, except the business 
that benevolence has in the mansion of poverty. 

The character and employment of a poet 
wore formerly my pleasure, but are now my 
pride. I knoAv that a very great deal of my late 
eclat Avas owing to the singularity of my situa- 
tion, and the honest prejudice of Scotsmen ; 
but still, as I said in the preface to my first edi- 
tion, 1 do look upon myself as having some 
pretensions from Nature to the poetic character 
I have not a doubt but the knack, the apti- 
tude, to learn the muses' trade, is a gift be- 
stowed by him et Avho forms the secret bias of 
the soul;" — but I as firmly believe, that excel- 
lence in the profession is thefnit of industry, la 



Mi 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



hour, attention, and pains. At least I am resolved 
to try my doctrine by the test of experience. 
Another appearance from the press I put off to 
ii very distant clay, a day that may never arrive 
— but poesy I am determined to prosecute with 
all my vigour. Nature has given very few, if 
any, of the profession, the talents of shining in 
every species of composition. I shall try (for 
until trial it is impossible to know) whether she 
has qualified me to shine in any one. The worst 
of it is, by the time one has finished a piece, it 
has been so often viewed and reviewed before 
the mental eye, that one loses, in a good measure, 
the powers of critical discrimination. Here the 
best criterion I know is a friend — not only of 
abilities to judge, but with good-nature enough, 
like a prudent teacher with a young learner, to 
praise perhaps a little more than is exactly just, 
lest the thin-skinned animal fall into that most 
deplorable of all poetic diseases — heart-break- 
ing despondency of himself. Dare I, Sir, al- 
ready immensely indebted to your goodness, 
ask the additional obligation of your being that 
friend to me ? I enclose you an essay of mine 
in a walk of poesy to me entirely new ; I mean 
the epistle addressed to R. G. Esq. or Robert 
Graham of Fintry, Esq. a gentleman of uncom- 
mon worth, to whom I lie under very great ob- 
ligations. The story of the poem, like most of 
my poems, is connected with my own story, and 
to give you the one, I must give you something 
of the other, I cannot boast of Mr. Creech's 
ingenuous fair dealing to me. He kept me 
hanging about Edinburgh from the 7th August 
1787, until the 13th April 1788, before he 
would condescend to give me a statement of af- 
fairs ; nor had I got it even then, but for an 
angry letter I wrote him, which irritated his 
pride. " I could" not a " tale" but a detail 
" unfold," but what am I that should speak 
against the Lord's anointed Bailie of Edin- 
burgh. 

I believe I shall in whole, 1001. copy-right in- 
cluded, clear about 4001. some little odds ; and 
even part of this depends upon what the gentle- 
man has yet to settle with me. I give you this 
information, because you did me the honour to in- 
terest yourself much in my welfare. I give you 
this information, but I give it to yourself only, for 
I am still much in the gentleman's mercy. Per- 
haps I injure the man in the idea I am some- 
times tempted to have of him — God forbid I 
should ! A little time will try, for in a month 
I shall go to town to wind up the business if pos- 
sible. 

To give the rest of my story in brief, I have 
married " my Jean," and taken a farm : with the 
first step I have every day more and more reason 
to be satisfied : with the last, it is rather the 
reverse. I have a younger brother, who sup- 
ports my aged mother ; another still younger 
brother, and three sisters, in a farm. On my 
last return from Edinburgh, it cost me about 
1801. to save them- from ruiru Not that I 
Lave lost so much. — I only interposed between 



my brother and his impending fate by the 
loan of so much. I give myself no airs on 
this, for it was mere selfishness on my part . 
I was conscious that the wrong scale of the ba- 
lance was pretty heavily charged, and I thought 
that throwing a little filial piety and fraternal 
affection into the scale in my favour, might help 
to smooth matters at the grand reckoning. 
There is still one thing would make my circum- 
stances quite easy : I have an excise officer's 
commission, and I five in the midst of a country 
division. My request to Mr. Graham, who is 
one of the commissioners of excise, was, if in 
his power, to procure me that division. If I 
were very sanguine, I might hope that some of 
my great patrons might procure me a Treasury 
warrant for supervisor, surveyor-general, &c. 

Thus, secure of a livelihood, " to thee, sweet 
poetry, delightful maid," I would consecrate my 
future days. 

R. B 



CXLVII. 
&o 0Lt. Robert &mglte. 



[The song which the poet says he brushed up a little is nowhere 
mentioned: lie wrote one hundred, and brushed up more, for tn>- 
Mu&eum of Johnson. J 



Ellisland, Jan. 6, 1789. 

Many happy returns of the season to you, my 
dear Sir ! May you be comparatively happy up 
to your comparative worth among the sons of 
men ; which wish would, I am sure, make you 
one of the most blest of the human race. 

I do not know if passing a " Writer to the 
signet" be a trial of scientific merit, or a mere 
business of friends and interest. However it 
be, let me quote you my two favourite passages, 
which, though I have repeated them ten thou- 
sand times, still they rouse my manhood and 
steel my resolution like inspiration. 

" On reason build resolve, 

That column of true majesty in man.'' 

Young. Night Thoughts 
" Hear, Alfred, hero of the state, 
Thy genius heaven's high will declare ; 
The triumph of the truly great, 
Is never, never to despair ! 
Is never to despair !" 

Thomson. Masque of Alfred. 

I grant you enter the lists of life, to struggle 
for "bread, business, notice, and distinction, in 
common with hundreds. — But who are they ? 
Men, like yourself, and of that aggregate body 
your compeers, seven-tenths of them come short 
of your advantages natural and accidental; 
while two of those that remain, either neglect 
their parts, as flowers blooming in a desert, or 
mis-spend their strength, like a bull goring a 
bramble-bush. 

But to change the theme : I am still cater- 
ing for Johnson's publication ; and among others, 



OF ROHERT BURNS. 



306 



I have brushed up the following old favourite song 
a little, with a view to your worship. I have only 
altered a word here and there ; but if you like 
the humour of it, we shall think of a stanza or 
*wo to add to it. 

R. B. 



CXLVIII. 



. Th ; vron justice to which the poet alludes, in this letter, was ex- 
ercised by Dr. Gregory, on the poem of the " Wounded Hare."] 



Sir, 



Ellis/and, 20th Jan. 170!). 



The inclosed sealed packet I sent to Edin- 
burgh, a few days after I had the happiness of 
meeting you in Ayrshire, but you were gone 
for the Continent. I have now added a few 
more of my productions, those for which I am 
indebted to the Nithsdale muses. The piece 
inscribed to R. G. Esq. is a copy of verses I sent 
Mr. Graham, of Fintry, accompanying a request 
for his assistance in a matter to me of very great 
moment. To that gentleman I am already doubly 
indebted, for deeds of kindness of serious im- 
port to my dearest interests, done in a manner 
grateful to the delicate feelings of sensibility. 
This poem is a species of composition new to 
me, but I do not intend it shall bo my last essay 
of the kind, as you will see by the " Poet's Pro- 
gress." These fragments, if my design succeed, 
are but a small part of the intended whole. I 
propose it shall be the work of my utmost ex- 
ertions, ripened by years ; of course I do not 
wish it much known. The fragment beginning 
"A little, upright, pert, tart, &c." I have not 
shown to man living, till I now send it you. It 
forms the postulata, the axioms, the definition 
of a character, which, if it appear at all, shall be 
placed in a variety of lights. This particular 
part I send you merely as a sample of my hand 
at portrait-sketching ; but, lest idle conjecture 
should pretend to point out the original, please 
to let it be for your single, sole inspection 

Need I make any apology for this trouble, to 
a gentleman who has treated me with such 
marked benevolence and peculiar kindness — 
who has entered into my interests with so much 
zeal, and on whose critical decisions I can so 
fully depend ? A poet as I am by trade, these 
decisions are to me of the last consequence. 
My late transient acquaintance among some of 
the mere rank and file of greatness, I resign 
with ease ; but to the distinguished champions 
of genius and learning, I shall be ever ambi- 
tious -of being known. The native genius and 
accurate discernment in Mr. Stewart's criti- 
cal strictures; the justness (iron justice, for he 



has no bowels of compassion for a poor poetio 
sinner) of Dr. Gregory's remarks, and the deli- 
cacy of Professor Dalzel's taste, I shall ever 
revere. 

I shall be in Edinburgh some time next 
month. 

I have the honour to be, Sir, 

Your highly obliged, and very 

Humble Servant, 

R.B. 



CXLTX 

2T0 3$l!3j)Op ^efJ&CS 



[Alexander Geddes was a controversialist and poet, and a bishop of 
the broken remnant of the Catholic Church of Scotland: he is 
known as the author of a very humorous ballad called " The Wee 
bit VVifiekie" and as the translator of one of the books of the Iliad, in 
opposition to Cowper.l 



Ellisland, 3rd Feb. 1789. 
Venerable Father, 

As I am conscious that wherever I am, you do 
me the honour to interest yourself in my wel- 
fare, it gives me pleasure to inform you that I 
am here at last, stationary in the serious busi- 
ness of life, and have now not only the retired 
leisure, but the hearty inclination, to attend 
to those great and important questions — what 
I am ? where I am ? and for what I am des- 
tined ? 

In that first concern, the conduct of the man, 
there was ever but one side on which I was ha- 
bitually blameable, and there I have secured 
myself in the way pointed out by Nature and 
Nature's God. I was sensible that to so help- 
less a creature as a poor poet, a wife and family 
were incumbrances, which a species of prudence 
would bid him shun ; but when the alternative 
was, being at eternal warfare with myself, on 
account of habitual follies, to give them no 
worse name, which no general example, no li- 
centious wit, no sophistical infidelity, would, to 
me, ever justify, I must have been a fool to 
have hesitated, and a madman to have made 
another choice. Besides, I had in " my Jean" 
a long and much-loved fellow-creature's happi- 
ness or misery among my hands, and who 
could trifle with such a deposit ? 

In the affair of a livelihood, I think myself 
tolerably secure: I have good hopes of my farm, 
but should they fail, I have an excise commis- 
sion, which on my simple petition, will, at any 
time, procure me bread. There is a certain 
stigma affixed to the character of an Excise 
officer, but I do not pretend to borrow honour 
from my profession ; and though the salary be 
comparatively small, it is luxury to anything 
that the first twenty-five years of my life taught 
me to expect. 

4 1 



306 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



Thus, with a rational aim and method in life, 
you may easily guess, my reverend and much- 
uonoured friend, that my characteristical trade 
is not forgotten. I am, if possible, more than 
ever an enthusiast to the muses. I am deter- 
mined to study man and nature, and in that view- 
incessantly ; and to try if the ripening and cor- 
rections of years can enable me to produce 
something worth preserving. 

You will see in your book, which I beg your 
pardon for detaining so long, that I have been 
tuning my lyre on the banks of Nith. Some 
large poetic plans that are floating in my ima- 
gination, or partly put in execution, I shall im- 
part to you when I have the pleasure of meet- 
ing with you ; which, if you are then in Edin- 
burgh, I shall have about the beginning of 
March. 

That acquaintance, worthy Sir, with which 
you were pleased to honour me, you must still 
allow me to challenge ; for with whatever un- 
concern I give up my transient connexion with 
the merely great, those self-important beings 
whose intrinsic * * * * [conjcealed under the 
accidental advantages of their * * * * I cannot 
lose the patronizing notice of the learned and 
good, without the bitterest regret. 

R. B. 



CL. 

2To i$tr. ^ame?; $Surntg!5. 



[Fanny Burns married Adam Armour, brother to bonnie Jean, 
,vent with him to Mauchline, and bore him sons and daughters.] 



Ellisland, 9th Feb. 1789. 
My dear Sir, 

Why I did not write to you long ago is what, 
even on the rack, I could not answer. If you 
can in your mind form an idea of indolence, dis- 
sipation, hurry, cares, change of country, enter- 
ing on untried scenes of life, all combined, you 
mil save me the trouble of a blushing apology. 
It could not be want of regard for a man for 
whom I had a high esteem before I knew him — 
an esteem which has much increased since I did 
know him ; and this caveat entered, I shall 
plead guilty to any other indictment with which 
you shall please to charge me. 

After I had parted from you for many months 
my life was one continued scene of dissipation. 
Here at last I am become stationary, and have 
taken a farm and — a wife. 

The farm is beautifully situated on the Nith, a 
large river that runs by Dumfries, and falls into 
the Solway frith. I have gotten a lease of my 
farm as long as I pleased: but how it may turn 
out is just a guess, it is yet to improve and en- 
close, &c. ; however, I have good hopes of my 



Bargain on 



the whole. 



My wife is my Jean, with whose story you are 



partly acquainted. I found I had a much-loved 
fellow creature's happiness or misery among my 
hands, and I durst not trifle with so sacred a 
deposit. Indeed I have not any reason to re- 
pent the step I have taken, as I have attached 
myself to a very good wife, and have shaken 
myself loose of every bad failing. 

I have found my book a very profitable busi- 
ness, and with the profits of it I have begun 
life pretty decently. Should fortune not favour 
me in farming, as I have nogreatfaith inher fickle 
ladyship, I have provided myself in another re- 
source, which however some folks may affect to 
despise it, is still a comfortable shift in the day of 
misfortune. In the heyday of my fame, a gen- 
tleman whose name at least I dare say you know, 
as his estate lies somewhere near Dundee, Mr. 
Graham, of Fintry, one of the commissioners of 
Excise, offered me the commission of an Excise 
officer. I thought it prudent to accept the offer; 
and accordingly I took my instructions, and 
have my commission by me. Whether I may 
ever do duty, or be a penny the better for 
it, is what I do not know ; but I have the com- 
fortable assurance, that come whatever ill fate 
will, I can, on my simple petition to the Excise- 
board, get into employ. 

We have lost poor uncle Robert this winter. 
He has long been very weak, and with very lit- 
tle alteration on him, he expired 3d Jan. 

His son William has been with me this winter, 
and goes in May to be an apprentice to a mason. 
His other son, the eldest, John, comes to me I 
expect in summer. They are both remarkably 
stout young fellows, and promise to do well. 
His only daughter, Fanny, has been with me ever 
since her father's death, and I purpose keeping 
her in my family till she be quite woman grown, 
and fit for service. She is one of the cleverest 
giils, and has one of the most amiable disposi- 
tions I have ever seen. 

All friends in this country and Ayrshire are 
well. Remember me to all friends in the north. 
My wife joins me in compliments to Mrs. B. and 
family. 

I am ever, my dear Cousin, 
Yours, sincerely, 

R. B. 



CLI. 



[The beautiful lines with which this letter concludes, I haw 
reason to believe were the production of th ; lady to whom the epistlr 
is addressed.] 



Ellis land, 4th March, 1789. 

Here am I, my honoured friend, returned 

safe from the capital. To a man, who has a 

home, however humble or remote — if that home 

is like mine, the scene of domestic comfort — thf 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



307 



bustle of Edinburgh will soon be a business of 
sickening disgust. 

" Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate you I" 

When I must skulk into a corner, lest the rat- 
tling equipage of some gaping blockhead should 
mangle me in the mire, I am tempted to exclaim 
— " What merits has he had, or what demerit 
have I had, in some state of pre-existence, that 
he is ushered into this state of being with the 
sceptre of rule ; and the key of riches in his puny 
fist, and I am kicked into the world, the sport of 
folly, or the victim of pride ?" I have read 
somewhere of a monarch, (in Spain I think it 
was,) who was so out of humour with the Ptole- 
mean system of astronomy, that he said had 
he been of the Creator's council, he could 
have saved him a great deal of labour and ab- 
surdity. I will not defend this blasphemous 
speech ; but often, as I have glided with humble 
stealth through the pomp of Princes' street, it 
has suggested itself to me, as an improvement 
on the present human figure, that a man in pro- 
portion to his own conceit of his consequence in 
the world, could have pushed out the longitude 
of his common size, as a snail pushes out his 
horns, or, as we draw out a perspective. This 
trifling alteration, not to mention the prodigious 
saving it would be in the;, tear and wear of the 
neck and limb-sinews of many of his majesty's 
liege subjects, in the way of tossing the head 
and tiptoe strutting, would evidently turn out a 
vast advantage, in enabling us at once to adjust 
the ceremonials in making a bow, or making 
way to a great man, and that too within a second 
of the precise spherical angle of reverence, or an 
inch of the particular point of respectful dis- 
tance, which the important creature itself re- 
quires ; as a measuring-glance at its tower- 
ing altitude, would determine the affair like 
instinct. 

You are right, Madam, in your idea of poor 
Mylne's poem, which he has addressed to me. 
The piece has a good deal of merit, but it has 
one great fault — it is, by far, too long. Besides, 
my success has encouraged such a shoal of ill- 
spawned monsters to crawl into public notice, un- 
der the title of Scottish Poets, that the very term 
Scottish Poetry borders on the burlesque. When 
I write to Mr. Carfrae, I shall advise him rather to 
try one of his deceased friend's English pieces. I 
am prodigiously hurried with my own matters, else 
I would have requested a perusal of all Mylne's 
poetic performances; and would have offered 
his friends my assistance in either selecting or 
correcting what would be proper for the press. 
What it is that occupies me so much, and 
perhaps a little oppresses my present spirits, 
shall fill up a paragraph in some future letter. 
In the mean time, allow me to close this epistle 
with a few lines done by a friend of mine *****. 
I give -you them, that as you have seen the origi- 
nal, you may guess whether one or two altera- 
tions 1 have ventured to make in them, be any 
real improvement. 



" Like the f/iir plant Tha* from our touch wlthdrav.*. 
Shrink, mildly fearful, even from applause. 
Be all a mother's fondest hope can areain, 
And all you are, my charming ..... seem. 
Straight as the fox-Klove, ere her bells disclose. 
M ild as the maiden-blushing hawthorn biows, 
Fair as the fairest of each lovelv kind, 
Your form shall be the Image of your mind ; 
Your manners shall so true your soul express, 
That all shall long to know the worth they miess: 
Congenial hearts shall greet with kindred love, 
And even sick'ning envy must approva" 



it. 1$ 



CL1I. 



[Mylne wasa worthy and a modest man : he died of an inflamma 
tory fever in the prime of life.] 

17«9. 
Rev. Sir, 

I do not recollect that I have ever felt a se- 
verer pang of shame, than on looking at the 
date of your obliging letter which accompanied 
Mr. Mylne's poem. 

I am much to blame : the honour Mr. Mylne 
has done me, greatly enhanced in its value by 
the endearing, though melancholy circumstance, 
of its being the last production of his muse, de- 
served a better return. 

I have, as you hint, thought of sending a copy 
of the poem to some periodical publication ; but, 
on second thoughts, I am afraid, that in the pre- 
sent case, it would be an improper step. My 
success, perhaps as much accidental as merited, 
has brought an inundation of nonsense under the 
name of Scottish poetry. Subscription-bills for 
Scottish poems, have so dunned, and daily do 
dun the public, that the very name is in danger 
of contempt. For these reasons, if publishing 
any of Mr. Mylne's poems in a magazine, &c. 
be at all prudent, in my opinion it certainh 
should not be a Scottish poem. The profits oi 
the labours of a man of genius, are, I hope, as 
honourable as any profits whatever; and Mr. 
Mylne's relations are most justly entitled to that 
honest harvest, which fate has denied himself to 
reap. But let the friends of Mr. Mylne's fame 
(among whom I crave the honour of ranking 
myself,) always keep in eye his respectability as 
a man and as a poet, and take no measure that, 
before the world knows any thing' about him, 
would risk his name ana character being classed 
with the fools of the times. 

I have, Sir, some experience of publishing ; 
and the way in which I would proceed with Mr. 
Mylne's poem, is this : — I will publish in two or 
three English and Scottish public papers, any 
one of his English poems which should, by pri- 
vate judges, be thought the most excellent, and 
mention it, at the same time, as one of the 
productions of a Lothian farmer, of respectable 
i character, lately leceased, whose poems his 



308 



GENKRAL CORRESPONDENCE 



friends had it in idea to publish, soon, by sub- 
scription, for the sake of his numerous family : 
— not in pity to that family, but in justice to 
what his friends think the poetic merits of the 
deceased ; and to secure, in the most effectual 
manner, to those tender connexions, whose 
right it is, the pecuniary reward of those merits. 

R. B. 



CLIII 



[Edward Nielson, whom Burns here introduces to Dr. Moore, was 
minister of Kirkbean, on the Solway-side : he was a jovial man, and 
loved good cheer, and merry company.] 



Sir, 



Ellisland, 23rd March, 1789. 



The gentleman who will deliver you this is a 
Mr. Nielson, a worthy clergyman in my neigh- 
bourhood, and a very particular acquaintance of 
mine. As I have troubled him with this packet, 
I must turn him over to your goodness, to re- 
compense him for it in a way in which he much 
needs your assistance, and where you can effec- 
tually serve him : — Mr. Nielson is on his way for 
France, to wait on his Grace of Queensberry, on 
some little business of a good deal of importance 
to him, and he wishes for your instructions re- 
specting the most eligible mode of travelling, 
&c. for him, when he has crossed the channel. 
I should not have dared to take this liberty with 
you, but that I am told, by those who have the 
honour of your personal acquaintance, that to be 
a poor honest Scotchman is a letter of recom- 
mendation to you, and that to have it in your 
power to serve such a character, gives you much 
pleasure. 

The inclosed ode is a compliment to the me- 
mory of the late Mrs. Oswald, of Auchencruive. 
You, probably, knew her personally, an honour 
of which I cannot boast ; but I spent my early 
years in her neighbourhood, and among her ser- 
vants and tenants. I know that she was de- 
tested with the most heartfelt cordiality. How- 
ever, in the particular part of her conduct which 
roused my poetic wrath, she was much less 
blameable. In January last, on my road to 
Ayrshire, I had put up at Bailie "Wigham's in 
Sanquhar, the only tolerable inn in the place. 
The frost was keen, and the grim evening and 
howling wind were ushering in a night of snow 
and drift. My horse and I were both much fa- 
tigued with the labours of the day, and just as 
my friend the Bailie and 1 were bidding defiance 
to the storm, over a smoking bowl, in wheels 
the funeral pageantry of the late great Mrs. 
Oswald, and poor I am forced to brave all the 
honors of the tempestuous night, and jade my 
horse, my young favourite horse, whom I had 



just christened Pegasus, twelve miles father on, 
through the wildest moors and hills of Ayrshire, 
to New Cumnock, the next inn. The powers of 
poesy and prose sink under me, when I would 
describe what I felt. Suffice it to say, that when 
a good fire at new Cumnock had so far recovered 
my frozen sinews, I sat down and wrote the in- 
closed ode. 

I was at Edinburgh lately, and settled finally 
with Mr. Creech; and I must own, that, at last, 
he has been amicable and fair with me. 

R.B. 



CLIV. 



[William Burns was the youngest brother of the poet: he was 
bred a sadler ; went to Longtown, and finally to London, where he 
died early.] 



Isle, March 25, 1789. 
I have stolen from my corn-sowing this minute 
to write a line to accompany your shirt and hat, 
for I can no more. Your sister Maria arrived 
yesternight, and begs to be remembered to you. 
Write me every opportunity, never mind post- 
age. My head, too, is as addle as an egg, this 
morning, with dining abroad yesterday. I re- 
ceived yours by the mason. Forgive me this 
foolish-looking scrawl of an epistle. 
I am ever, 

My dear William, 

Yours, 

R.B. 
P.S. If you are not then gone from Longtown, 
I'll write you a long letter, by this day se'en- 
night. If you should not succeed in your tramps, 
don't be dejected, or take any rash step — -return 
to us in that case, and we will court fortune's 
better humour. Remember this I charge you. 

R.B. 



CLV. 



[The Monklanrl Rook Club existed only while Robert Riddel, 
of the Friar's C'arse, lived, or Hums had leisure to attend: such in- 
stitutions, when well conducted, are very beneficial, when not op- 
pressed by divinity and verse, as they sometimes are.] 



Ellisland, 2nd April, 1789. 

I will make no excuse, my dear Bibliopolus, 
(God forgive me for murdering language !) that 
I have sat down to write you on this vile paper. 

It is economy, Sir ; it is that cardinal "virtuej 
prudence : so 1 beg you will sit down^ and either 



OV UOIJKRT BURNS. 



30tf 



compose or borrow a panegyric. If you are 
going to borrow, apply to * * * * to compose, or 
rather to compound, something very clever on 
my remarkable frugality ; that I write to one of 
my most esteemed friends on this wretched 
paper, which was originally intended for the 
venal fist of some drunken exciseman, to take 
dirty notes m a miserable vault of an ale-cel- 
lar. 

Frugality ! thou mother of ten thousand 
blessings — thou cook of fat beef and dainty 
greens ! — thou manufacturer of warm Shetland 
hose, and comfortable surtouts ! — thou old 
housewife, darning thy decayed stockings with 
thy ancient spectacles on thy aged nose ! — lead 
me, hand me in thy clutching palsied fist, up 
those heights, and through those thickets, hith- 
erto inaccessible, and impervious to my anxious, 
weary feet : — not those Parnassian crags, bleak 
and barren, where the hungry worshippers of 
fame are, breathless, clambering, hanging be- 
tween heaven and hell ; but those glittering 
cliffs of Potosi, where the all-sufficient, all pow- 
ful deity, Wealth, holds his immediate court of 
joys and pleasures; where the sunny exposure of 
plenty, and the hot walls of profusion, produce 
those blissful fruits of luxury, exotics in this 
world, and natives of paradise ! — Thou withered 
sybil, my sage conductress, usher me into thy 
refulgent, adored presence ! — The power, splen- 
did and potent as he now is, was once the piding 
nursling of thy faithful care, and tender arms ! 
Call me thy son, thy cousin, thy kinsman, or 
favourite, and adjure the god by the scenes of his 
infant years, no longer to repulse me as a stran- 
ger, or an alien, but to favour me with his pe- 
culiar countenance and protection ? — He daily 
bestows his greatest kindness on the undeserv- 
ing and the worthless — assure him, that I bring 
ample documents of meritorious demerits ! 
Pledge yourself for me, that, for the glorious 
cause of Lucre, I will do any thing, be any 
thing — but the horse-leech of private oppression, 
or the vulture of public robbery ! 

But to descend from heroics. 

1 want a Shakspeare ; I want likewise an 
English dictionary — Johnson's, I suppose, is 
best. In these and all my prose commissions, 
the cheapest is always the best for me. There 
is a small debt of honour that I owe Mr. Robert 
Cleghorn, in Saughton Mills, my worthy friend, 
and your well-wisher. Please give him, and 
urge him to take it, the fir&t time you see him, 
ten shillings worth of any thing you have to sell 
and place it to my account. 

The library scheme that I mentioned to you, 
is already begun, under the direction of Captain 
Riddel. There is another in emulation of it 
going on at Closeburn, under the auspices of Mr. 
Monteith, of Closeburn, which will be on a greater 
scale than ours. Capt. Riddel gave -his infant 
society a great many of his old books, else I had 
written you on that subject ; but, one of these 
days, I shall trouble you with a commission for 
' The Monkland Friendly Society" — a copy of 



The Spectator, Mirror, and Lounger , Man of Feeling, 
Man of the World, Guthrie's Geographical Grain- 
mar, with some religious pieces, will likely be 
our first order. 

When I grow richer, I will write to you on 
gilt post, to make amends for this sheet. At 
present, every guinea has a five guinea errand 
with, My dear Sir, 

Your faithful, poor, but honest, friend, 

H. B. 



CLVL 



[Some lines which extend but fail to finish the sketch contained 
in this letter, will be found elsewhere in this publication.] 



Ellisland 4th April, 1789. 

I no sooner hit on any poetic plan or fancy, 
but I wish to send it to you : and if knowing 
and reading these give half the pleasure to you, 
that communicating them to you gives to me, I 
am satisfied. 

I have a poetic whim in my head, which I at 
present dedicate, or rather inscribe to the Right 
Hon. Charles James Fox ; but how long that 
fancy may hold, I cannot say. A few of the 
first lines, I have just rough-sketched as fol- 
lows : 

SKETCH. 

How wisdom and folly meet, mix, and unite ; 

How virtue and vice blend their black and their 
white ; 

Hoav genius, the illustrious father of fiction, 

Confounds rule and law, reconciles contradic- 
tion — 

I sing : If these mortals, the critics should bus- 
tle, 

I care not, not I, let the critics go whistle. 

But now for a patron, whose name and whose 
glory, 
At once may illustrate and honour my story. 

Thou first of our orators, first of our wits ; 
Yet whose parts and acquirements seem mere 

lucky hits ; 
With knowledge so vast, and with judgment so 

strong, 
No man with the half of 'em e'er went far 

wrong ; 
With passion so potent, and fancies so bright, 
No man with the half of 'em ere went quite 

right ; 
A sorry, poor misbegot son of the muses, 
For using thy name offers fifty excuses. 

On the 20th current I hope to have the ho- 
nour of assuring you in person, how sincerely I 
am — 

R.B. 



810 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



CLVTT. 
£o iJHc. 2&iUfam 13unus, 

SADLER, 
CA.BE OF MR. WRIGHT, CARRIER, LONGTOWN. 



I " Ne-> er to despair" was a favourite saying with Burns : and 
" fljm resolve,' he held, with Young, to be " the column of true 
avyesty in man."] 



Isle, 15th April, 1789. 
My dear William, 
I am extremely sorry at the misfortune of 
your legs ; I beg you will never let any worldly 
concern interfere with the more serious matter, 
the safety of your life and limbs. I have not 
time in these hurried days to write you any 
thing other than a mere how d'ye letter. I will 
only repeat my favourite quotation : — 

" What proves the hero truly great 
Is never, never to despair." 

My house shall be your welcome home ; and as 
I know your prudence (would to God you had 
resolution equal to your prudence ! ) if anywhere at 
a distance from friends, you should need money, 
you know my direction by post. 

The enclosed is from Gilb rt, brought by your 
sister Nanny. It was unluckily forgot. Yours 
to Gilbert goes by post. — I heard from them 
yesterday, they are all well. 

Adieu, 

Ii.B. 



CLVIII 
Zo ffix*. J&'JWurtJo, 

DRUMLANRIG. 



[Of this accomplished lady, Mrs. M'Murdo, of Drumlanrig, and 
her daughters, something has been said in the notes on the songs: 
the poem alluded to was the song of " Bonnie Jean."] 



Ellisland, 2nd May, 1789. 
Madam, 
I have finished the piece which had the happy 
fortune to be honoured with your approbation ; 
and never did little miss with more sparkling 
pleasure show her applauded sampler to partial 
mamma, than I now send my poem to you and 
Mr. M'Murdo if he is returned to Drumlanrig. 
You cannot easily imagine what thin-skinned 
animals — what sensitive plants poor poets are. 
i low do we shrink into the embittered corner of 
self-abasement, when neglected or condemned 
by those to whom we ook up ! and how do we, 
in erect importance, add another cubit to our 
stature on being uoticed and applauded by those 



whom we honour and respect ! My late visit tc 
Drumlanrig, has I can tell you, Madam, given me 
a balloon waft up Parnassus, where on my fan- 
cied elevation I regard my poetic self with no 
small degree of complacency. Surely with all 
their sins, the rhyming tribe are not ungrateful 
creatures.- I recollect your goodness to your 
humble guest — I see Mr. M'Murdo adding to 
politeness of the gentleman, the kindness of a 
friend, and my heart swells as it would burst, 
with warm emotions and ardent wishes ! It 
may be it is not gratitude — it may be a mixed 
sensation. That strange, shifting, doubling ani- 
mal man is so generally, at best, but a nega- 
tive, often a worthless creature, that we cannot 
see real goodness and native worth without feel- 
ing the bosom glow with sympathetic approba- 
tion. 

With every sentiment of grateful respect, 
I have the honour to be, 
Madam, 
Your obliged and grateful humble servant, 

R.B. 



CLIX. 
t£o 0Lt. Cunningham. 



[Honest Jamie Thomson, who shot the hare because she browzed 
with her companions on his father's " wheat-braird," had no idea he 
was pulling down such a burst of indignation on his head as this 
letter with the poem which it enclosed expresses.] 



Ellisland, 4th May, 1789. 
My dear Sir, 

Your duty-free favour of the 26th April I re- 
ceived two days ago ; I will not say I perused it 
with pleasure ; that is the cold compliment of 
ceremony ; I perused it, Sir, with delicious sa- 
tisfaction ; — in short, it is such a letter, that not 
you, nor your friend, but the legislature, by ex- 
press proviso in their postage laws, should frank. 
A letter informed with the soul of friendship is 
such an honour to human nature, that they 
should order it free ingress and egress to and 
from their bags and mails, as an encourage- 
ment and mark of distinction to supereminent 
virtue. 

I have just put the last hand to a little poem 
which I think will be something to your taste. 
One morning lately, as I was out pretty early 
in the fields, sowing some grass seeds, I heard 
the burst of a shot from a neighbouring planta- 
tion, and presently a poor little wounded hare 
came crippling by me. You will guess my in- 
dignation at the inhuman fellow who could 
shoot a hare at this season, when all of them have 
young ones. Indeed there is something in that 
business of destroying for our sport individuals 
in the animal creation that do not injure us ma- 
terially, which I could never reconcile to mv 
ideas of virtue. 



OF ROKRRT BURNS 



311 



Inhuman man ! curse on thy barbarous art, 
And blasted be thy murder-aiming eye I 
May never pity* sooth thee with a sigh, 

Nor ever pleasure glad thy cruel heart ! 
&c. &c. 

Let me know how you like my poem. I am 
doubtful whether it would not be an improve- 
ment to keep out the last stanza but one alto- 
gether. 

Cruikshank is a glorious production of the 
author of man. You, he, and the noble Colonel 
of the Crochallan Fencibles are to me 

" Dear as the ruddy drops which warm my heart." 

I have a good mind to make verses on you all, 
to the tune of " Three guid fellows oyont the 
glen." 

R.B. 



CLX. 
1o J£U\ Samuel 2Sroftm, 



^amuel Brown was brother to the poet's mother : he seems to have 
been a joyous sort of person, who loved a joke, and understood double 
meanings.] 

Mossgiel, 4th May, 1789. 
Dear Uncle, 
This, I hope, will find you and your conjugal 
yoke-fellow in your good old way ; I am impa- 
tient to know if the Ailsa fowling be com- 
menced for this season yet, as I want three or 
four stones of feathers, and I hope you will be- 
speak them for me. It would be a vain attempt 
for me to enumerate the various transactions I 
have been engaged in since I saw you last, but 
tins know, — I am engaged in a smuggling trade, 
and God knows if ever any poor man experienced 
better returns, two for one, but as freight and 
delivery have turned out so dear, I am thinking 
of taking out a licence and beginning in fair 
trade. I have taken a farm on the borders of 
the Nith, and in imitation of the old Patriarchs, 
get men-servants and maid-servants, and flocks 
and herds, and beget sons and daughters. 
Your obedient Nephew, 

E,B. 



CLI. 

?o MicharD Proton. 



| Burns was much attached to Brown ; and one regrets that an in- 
considerate word should have estranged the haughty sailor.] 



Manchline, 2\st May, 1789. 
My dear Friend, 
I was in the country by accident, and hearing 
of your safe arrival, I could not resist the temp- 
tation of wishing you joy on your return, wish- 



ing you would write to me before you sail again, 
wishing you would always set me down as your 
bosom friend, wishing you long life and pros- 
perity, and that every good thing may attend 
you, wishing Mrs. Brown and your little ones as 
free of the evils of this world, as is consistent 
with humanity, wishing you and she were to 
make two at the ensuing lying-in, with which 
Mrs. B. threatens very soon to favour me, wish- 
ing I had longer time to write to you at present, 
and, finally, wishing that if there is to be another 
state of existence, Mr. B., Mrs. B., our little 
ones, and both families, and you and I, in some 
snug retreat, may make a jovial party to all 
eternity ! 

My direction is at Ellisland, near Dumfries. 
Yours, 

R.B. 



CLXII. 
^o J&r. $amz$ $amihon\ 

f James Han.ilton, grocer, in Glasgow, interested himself eany in 
the fortunes of the poet.] 

Ellisland, 26th May, 1789. 
Dear Sir, 

I send you by John Glover, carrier, the 
account for Mr Turnbull, as I suppose you 
know his address. 

I would fain offer, my dear Sir, a word of 
sympathy with your misfortunes ; but it is a 
tender string, and I know not how to touch it. 
It is easy to flourish a set of high-flown senti- 
ments on the subjects that would give great 
satisfaction to— a breast quite at ease; but as 
one observes, who was very seldom mistaken in 
the theory of life, " The heart knoweth its own 
sorrows, and a stranger intermeddle th not there- 
with." 

Among some distressful emergencies that I 
have experienced in life, I ever laid this down 
as my foundation of comfort — That he who has 
lived the life of an honest man, has by no means 
lived in vain I 

With every wish for your welfare and future 
success, 

I am, my dear Sir, 

Sincerely yours, 

R.B. 



CLXI1I. 

%o S&tUtam <£rced), IHsq. 



[The poetic address to the " venomed stang" of the toothache, 
seems to liavecome into existence about this time.] 



Ellisland, 30th May, 1789. 
Sir, 
I had intended to have troubled you with ,1 
long letter, but at present the delightful sensa- 



:M2 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



tions of an omnipotent toothache so engross all 
my inner man, as to put it out of my power 
even to write nonsense. However, as in duty 
bound, I approach my bookseller with an offer- 
ing in my hand— a few poetic clinches, and a 
song :— To expect any other kind of offering 
from the Rhyming Tribe would be to know 
them much less than you do. I do not pretend 
that there is much merit in these morceaux, but I 
have two reasons for sending them ; primo, they 
are mostly ill-natured, so are in unison with my 
present feelings, while fifty troops of infernal 
spirits are driving post from ear to ear along my 
jawbones; and secondly, they are so short, that 
you cannot leave off in the middle, and so hurt 
my pride in the idea that you found any work of 
mine too heavy to get through. 

I have a request to beg of you, and I not only 
beg of you, but conjure you, by all your wishes 
and by all your hopes, that the muse will spare 
the satiric wink in the moment of your foibles ; 
that she will warble the song of rapture round 
your hymeneal couch ; and that she will shed 
on your turf the honest tear of elegiac gratitude ! 
Grant my request as speedily as possible — send 
me by the very first fly or coach for this place three 
copies of the last edition of my poems, which 
place to my account. 

Now may the good things of prose, and the 
good things of verse, come among thy hands, 
until they be filled with the good things of this 
life, prayeth 

R..B. 



CLXIV. 



( I he pnetmade the acquaintance of Mr. M'Auley, of Dumbarton, 
In one of his northern tours, — he was introduced by his friend Ken- 
nedy.] 



Ellisland, 4th June, 1 789. 
Dear Sir, 
Thou gh I am not without my fears respecting 
my fate, at that grand, universal inquest of right 
and wrong, commonly called The Last Day, yet 
[ trust there is one sin, which that arch-vaga- 
bond, Satan, who I understand is to be king's 
evidence, cannot throw in my teeth, I mean in- 
gratitude. There is a certain pretty large quan- 
tum of kindness for which I remain, and from 
inability, I fear, must still remain, your debtor ; 
but though unable to repay the debt, I assure 
you, Sir, I shall ever warmly remember the ob- 
ligation. It gives me the sincerest pleasure to 
hear by my old acquaintance, Mr. Kennedy, that 
you are, in immortal Allan's language, " Hale, 
and weel, and living ;" and that your charming 
family are well, and promising to be an amiable 
ami respectable addition to the company of per- 



formers, whom the Great Manager of the Drama 
of Man is bringing into action for the succeeding 
age. 

With respect to my welfare, a subject in 
which you once warmly and effectively interested 
yourself, I am here in my old way, holding my 
plough, marking the growth of my corn, or the 
health of my dairy ; and at times sauntering by 
the delightful windings of the Nith, on the mar- 
gin of which I have built my humble domicile, 
praying for seasonable weather, or holding an 
intrigue with the muses ; the only gypsies with 
whom I have now any intercourse. As I am 
entered into the holy state of matrimony, I trust, 
my face is turned completely Zion-ward ; and 
as it is a rule with all honest fellows to repeat 
no grievances, I hope that the little poetic 
licences of former days will of course fall under 
the oblivious influence of some good-natured 
statute of celestial prescription. In my family 
devotion, which, like a good Presbyterian, I oc- 
casionally give to my household folks, I am ex- 
tremely fond of that psalm, " Let not the errors 
of my youth," &c, and that other, "Lo, children 
are God's heritage," &c, in which last Mrs. 
Burns, who by the bye has a glorious " wood- 
note wild" at either old song or psalmody, joins 
me with the pathos of Handel's Messiah. 

R. B. 



CLXV. 



[The following high-minded letter may be regarded as a s 
Kl domestic morality preached by one of the experienced.] 



Ellisland, 8th June, 1789. 

My dear Friend, 
I am perfectly ashamed of myself when I look 
at the date of your last. It is not that I forget 
the friend of my heart and the companion of my 
peregrinations ; but I have been condemned to 
drudgery beyond sufferance, though not, thank 
God, beyond redemption. I have had a collec- 
tion of poems by a lady put into my hands to 
prepare them for the press ; which horrid task, 
with sowing corn with my own hand, a parcel of 
masons, wrights, plasterers, &c, to attend to, 
roaming on business through Ayrshire — all this 
was against me, and the very first dreadful ar- 
ticle was of itself too much for me. 

13th. I have not had a moment to spare from 
incessant toil since the 8th. Life, my dear Sir, 
is a serious matter. You know by experience 
that a man's individual self is a good deal, but 
believe me, a wife and family of children, when- 
ever you have the honour to be a husband and 
a father, will show you that your present and 
most anxious hours of solitude- are spent on 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



HIS 



trlfl.es. The welfare of those who are very dear 
to us, whose only support, hope, and stay we 
are — this, to a generous mind, is another sort of 
more important object of care than any concerns 
whatever which centre merely in the individual. 
On the other hand, let no young, unmarried, 
rakehelly dog among you, make a song of his 
pretended liberty and freedom from care. If 
the relations we stand in to king, country, kin- 
dred, and friends, be any thing but the visionary 
fancies of dreaming metaphysicians ; if religion, 
virtue, magnanimity, generosity, humanity and 
justice, be aught but empty sounds ; then the 
man who may be said to live only for others, for 
the beloved, honourable female, whose tender 
faithful embrace endears life, and for the help- 
less little innocents who are to be the men and 
women, the worshippers of his God, the subjects 
of his king, and the support, nay the very vital 
existence of his country in the ensuing age ; — 
compare such a man with any fellow whatever, 
who, whether he bustle and push in business 
among labourers, clerks, statesmen ; or whether 
he roar and rant, and drink and sing in taverns 
— a fellow over whose grave no one will breathe 
a single heigh-ho, except from the cobweb-tie of 
what is called good-fellowship — who has no view 
nor aim but what terminates in himself — if there 
be any grovelling earthborn wretch of our spe- 
cies, a renegado to common sense, who would 
fain believe that the noble creature man, is no 
better than a sort of fungus, generated out of 
nothing, nobody knows how, and soon dissipated 
in nothing, nobody knows where ; such a stupid 
beast, such a crawling reptile, might balance the 
foregoing unexaggerated comparison, but no one 
else would have the patience. 

Forgive me, my dear Sir, for this long silence. 
To make you amends, I shall send you soon, and 
more encouraging still, without any postage, one 
or two rhymes of my later manufacture. 

KB. 



CLXVI. 



John M'Murdo has been already mentioned as one of Burns s 
firmest friends : his table at Drumlanrig was always spread at the 
poet's coming : nor was it uncheered bv the presence of the lady of 
the house and her daughters.] 



Si] 



Ellisland, 19th June, 1789. 



A ?oet and a beggar are, in so many points 
of view, alike, that one might take them for the 
same individual character under different desig- 
nation e r were it not that though, with a trifling 
poetic license, most poets may be styled beggars, 
yet the converse of the proposition does not hold 
that every beggar is a poet. In one particular, 



however, they remarkably agree ; if you heln 
either the one or the other to a mug of ale, or 
the picking of a bone, they will very willingly 
repay you with a song. This occurs to me at 
present, as I have just dispatched a well-lined 
rib of John Kirkpatrick's Highlander ; a bargain 
for which I am indebted to you, in the style of 
our ballad printers, " Five excellent new songs." 
The enclosed is nearly my newest song, and one 
that has cost me some pains, though that is but 
an equivocal mark of its excellence. Two or 
three others, which I have by me, shall do them- 
selves the honour to wait on your after leisure : 
petitioners for admittance into favour, must not 
harass the condescension of their benefactors. 

You see, Sir, what it is to patronise a poet. 
'Tis like being a magistrate in a petty borough ; 
you do them the favour to preside in their council 
for one year, and your name bears the prefatory 
stigma of Bailie for life. 

With, not the compliments, but the best 
wishes^ the sincerest prayers of the season for 
you, that you may see many and happy years with 
Mrs. M'Murdo, and your family; two blessings 
by the bye, to which your rank does not, by any 
means, entitle you ; a loving wife and fine family 
being almost the only good things of this life to 
which the farm-house and cottage have an ex- 
clusive right. 

I have the honour to be, 
Sir, 
Your much indebted and very humble servant, 

R. B. 



CLXVII. 

2To Jfe. SSunlop. 



[The devil, the pope, and the Pretender darkened the sermons, for 
more than a century, of many sound divines in the north. Asa Ja- 
cobite, Burns disliked to hear Prince Charles called the Pretender, 
and as a man of a tolerant nature, he disliked to hear the Pope treated 
unlike a gentleman: his notions regarding Satan are recorded in his 
inimitable Address.] 



Ellisland, 2lst June, 1789. 
Dear Madam, 

Will you take the effusions, the miserable 
effusions of low spirits, just as they flow from 
their bitter spring ? I know not of any particu- 
lar cause for this worst of all my foes besetting 
roe; but for some time my soul has been be- 
clouded witha thickening atmosphere of evil ima- 
ginations and gloomy presages. 

Monday Evening. 

I have just heard Mr. Kirkpatrick preach a 
sermon. He is a man famous for his benevo- 
lence, and I revere him ; but from such ideas of 
my Creator, good Lord deliver me ! Religion, 
my honoured friend, is surely a simple business, 
as it equally concerns the ignorant and the 
learned, the poor and the rich That there is 

4L 



814 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



fin incomprehensible Great Being, to whom I 
owe my existence, and that he must be inti- 
mately acquainted with the operations and pro- 
gress of the internal machinery, and consequent 
outward deportment of this creature which he 
has made ; these are, I think, self-evident pro- 
positions. That there is a real and eternal dis- 
tinction between virtue and vice, and conse- 
quently, that I am an accconntable creature; 
that from the seeming nature of the human 
mind, as well as from the evident imperfection, 
nay, positive injustice, in the administration of 
affairs, both in the natural and moral worlds, 
there must be a retributive scene of existence 
beyond the grave ; must, I think, be allowed by 
every one who will give himself a moment's 
reflection. I will go farther, and affirm, that 
from the sublimity, excellence, and purity of his 
doctrine and precepts, unparalleled by all the 
aggregated wisdom and learning of many pre- 
ceding ages, though, to appearance, he himself 
was the obscurest and most illiterate of our 
species ; therefore Jesus Christ was from God. 

Whatever mitigates the woes, or increases 
the happiness of others, this is my criterion of 
goodness ; and whatever injures society at large, 
or any individual in it, this is my measure of 
iniquity. 

What think you, madam, of my creed ? I 
trust that I have said nothing that will lessen me 
in the eye of one, whose good opinion I value 
almost next to the approbation of my own 
mind. 

R.B. 



OLXVIII. 

) air. 



I The name of the person to whom the following letter is ad- 
dressed is unknown : he seems, from his letter to Burns, to have been 
intimate with the unfortunate poet, Robert Fergusson, who, in rich- 
ness of conversation and plenitude of fancy, reminded him, he said, 
of Robert liurns.J 

1789. 
My dear Sir, 

The hurry of a farmer in this particular sea- 
son, and the indolence of a poet at all times and 
seasons, will, I hope, plead my excuse for neglect- 
ing so long to answer your obliging letter of the 
5th of August. 

That you have done well in quitting your la- 
borious concern in * * * * I do not doubt ; the 
weighty reasons you mention, were, I hope, very, 
and deservedly indeed, weighty ones, and your 
health is a matter of the last importance ; but 
whether the remaining proprietors of the paper 
have also done well, is what I much doubt. 
The * * * *, so far as 1 was a reader, exhibited 
such a brilliancy of point, such an elegance of 
paragraph, and such a variety of intelligence, 



that I can hardly conceive it possible to con- 
tinue a daily paper in the same degree of excel- 
lence : but if there was a man who had abilities 
equal to the task, that man's assistance the pro- 
prietors have lost. 

When I received your letter I was transcrib- 
ing for * * * * my letter to the magistrates of 
the Canongate, Edinburgh, begging their per- 
mission to place a tomb-stone over poor Fergus- 
son, and their edict in consequence of my peti- 
tion, but now I shall send them to ***** *. 
Poor Fergusson ! If there be a life beyond the 
grave, which I trust there is ; and if there be a 
good God presiding over all nature, which I am 
sure there is ; thou art now enjoying existence 
in a glorious world, where worth of the heart 
alone is distinction in the man ; where riches, 
deprived of all their pleasure-purchasing powers, 
return to their native sordid matter ; where 
titles and honours are the disregarded reveries 
of an idle dream ; and where that heavy virtue, 
which is the negative consequence of steady dul- 
ness, and those thoughtless, though often de- 
structive follies which are the unavoidable aber- 
rations of frail human nature, will be thrown into 
equal oblivion as if they had never been ! 

Adieu, my dear Sir ! So soon as your present 
views and schemes are concentered in an aim, I 
shall be glad to hear from you ; as your welfare 
and happiness is by no means a subject indif- 
ferent to 

Yours, 

R. B. 



CLXTX. 



[Helen Maria Williams acknowledged this letter, with the critical 
pencillings on her poem on the Slave Trade, which it enclosed: she 
agreed, she said, with all his objections, save one, but considered his 
praise too high.] 

EUisland, 1789. 
Madam, 
Of the many problems in the nature of that 
wonderful creature, man, this is one of the most 
extraordinary, that he shall go on from day to 
day, from week to week, from month to month, 
or perhaps from year to year, suffering a hundred 
times more in an hour from the impotent con- 
sciousness of neglecting what he ought to do, 
than the very doing of it would cost him. I am 
deeply indebted to you, first for a most elegant 
poetic compliment ; then for a polite, obliging 
letter ; and, lastly, for your excellent poem on 
the Slave Trade ; and yet, wretch that J am ! 
though the debts were debts of honour, and the 
creditor a lady, I have put off and put off even the 
very acknowledgment of the obligation, until 
you must indeed be the very angel I take you 
for, if you can forgive me. 



OF ROBKRT BURNS. 



3 Id 



Your poem I have read with the highest plea- 
sure. I have a way whenever I read a book, I 
mean a book in our own trade, Madam, a poetic 
one, and when it is my own property, that I take 
a pencil and mark at the ends of verses, or note 
on margins and odd paper, little criticisms of 
approbation or disapprobation as I peruse along. 
I will make no apology for presenting you with 
a few unconnected thoughts that occurred to me 
in my repeated perusals of your poem. I want 
to show you that I have honesty enough to tell 
you what I take to be truths, even when they 
are not quite on the side of approbabation ; and 
I do it in the firm faith that you have equal 
greatness of mind to hear them with plea- 
sure, 

I had lately the honour of a letter from Dr. 
Moore, where he tells me that he has sent me 
some books : they are not yet come to hand, but 
I hear they are on the way. 

"Wishing you all success in your progress in 
the path of fame ; and that you may equally 
escape the danger of stumbling through incau- 
tious speed, or losing ground through loitering 
neglect. 

R. B. 



CLXX. 



[The Kirk's Alarm, to which this letter alludes, has little of the 
spirit of malice and drollery, so rife in his earlier controversial com- 
rx>s"!ti)its.] 



Ellisland, near Dumfries, Jth Aug. 1789. 
Dear Sir, 
I intended to have written you long ere now, 
and as I told you, I had gotten three stanzas and 
a half on my way in a poetic epistle to you ; but 
that old enemy of all good works, the devil, threw 
me into a prosaic mire, and for the soul of me I 
cannot get out of it. I dare not write you a 
long letter, as I am going to intrude on your 
time with a long ballad. I have, as you will 
shortly see, finished " The Kirk's Alarm ;" but 
now that it is done, and that I have laughed 
once or twice at the conceits in some of the 
stanzas, I am determined not to let it get into 
the public ; so I send you this copy, the first 
that I have sent to Ayrshire, except some few 
of the stanzas, which I wrote off in embryo for 
Gavin Hamilton, under the express provision 
and ^request that you will only read it to a few 
of us, and do not on any account give, or permit 
to be taken, any copy of the ballad. If I could 
be of any service to Dr. M'Gill, I would do it, 
though- it should be at a much greater expense 
than irritating a few bigoted priests, but I am 
afraid serving him in his present embarras is a 
rask too hard for me. I have enemies enow, 



God knows, though I do not wantonly add to the 
number. Still as I think there is some merit in 
two or three of the thoughts, f send it to you as 
a small, but sincere testimony how much, and 
with what respectful esteem, 

I am, dear Sir, 
Your obliged humble servant, 

R. B. 



CLXXI. 

2To i$tr?$. JDunlop 



[The poetic epistle of worthy Janet Little was of small account 
nor Mas the advice of Dr. Moore, to abandon the Scottish sranzn and 
dialect, and adopt the measure and lan^ua^e of modern English 
poetry, better inspired than the strains of the milkmaid, lor such was 
Jenny Liitle.] 



Ellisland, 6th Sept. ! 789. 
Dear Madam, 

I have mentioned in my last my appointment 
to the Excise, and the birth of little Frank ; 
who, by the bye, I trust will be no discredit to 
the honourable name of Wallace, as he has a 
fine manly countenance, and a figure that might 
do credit to a little fellow two months older ; 
and likewise an excellent good temper, though 
when he pleases he has a pipe, only not quite so 
loud as the horn that his immortal namesake 
blew as a signal to take out the pin of Stirling 
bridge. 

I had some time ago an epistle, part poetic, 
and part prosaic, from your poetess, Mrs. J. 
Little, a very ingenious, but modest composition. 
I should have written her as she requested, but 
for the hurry of this new business. I have heard 
of her and her compositions in this country ; 
and I am happy to add, always to the honour of 
her character. The fact is, I know not well how 
to write to her : I should sit down to a sheet of 
paper that I knew not how to stain. I am no 
dab at fine-drawn letter-writing ; and, except 
when prompted by friendship or gratitude, or, 
which happens extremely rarely, inspired by the 
muse (I know not her name) that presides 
over epistolary writing, I sit down, when ne- 
cessitated to write, as I would sit down to beat 
hemp. 

Some parts of your letter of the 20th August, 
struck me with the most melancholy concern foi 
the state of your mind at present. 

Would I could write you a letter of comfort, 
I would sit down to it with as much pleasure, as 
I would to write an epic poem of my own com- 
position that should equal the Iliad. Religion, 
my dear friend, is the true comfort ! A strong 
persuasion in a future state of existence ; a pro- 
position so obviously probable, that, setting reve- 
lation aside, every nation and people, so far as 
investigation has reached, for at least near foul 
thousand years, have, in some mode or other 
firmly believed it. In vain would we reason 



316 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



ana pretend to doubt. I have myself done so to 
a very daring pitch; but, when I reflected, that 
I was opposing the most ardent wishes, and the 
most darling hopes of good men, and flying in 
the face of all human belief, in all ages, I was 
shocked at my own conduct. 

I know not whether I have ever sent you the 
following lines, or if you have ever seen them ; 
but it is one of my favourite quotations, which I 
keep constantly by me in my progress through 
life, in the language of the book of Job, 

"Against the day of battle and of war" — 

spoken of religion : 

«• Tis this, my friend, that streaks our morning bright, 
"Tis this, that gilds the horror of our night. 
When wealth forsakes us, and when friends are few, 
When friends are faithless, or when foes pursue; 
Tis this that wards the blow, or stills the smart, 
Disarms affliction, or repels his dart ; 
Within the breast bids purest raptures rise, 
Bids smiling conscience spread her cloucu>*s skies." 

I have been busy with Zeluco. The Doctor is 
so obliging as to request my opinion of it ; and 
I have been revolving in my mind some kind of 
criticisms on novel-writing, but it is a depth be- 
yond my research. I shall however digest my 
thoughts on the subject as well as I can. Zeluco 
is a most sterling performance. 

Farewell ! A Dieu, le bon Dieu, je vous com- 
mende 

B.B. 



CLXXI1. 

€o ©aptatn ifttoud, 



[The Whistle alluded to in this letter was contended for on the 16th 
cf October, 179(1— the successful competitor, Fergusson, ofCraigdar- 
roch, was killed by a fall from his horse, some time after the "jovial 
contest."] 



Sir, 



EUisland, \6ih Oct. 1789. 



Big with the idea of this important day at 
Friars Carse, 1 have watched the elements and 
skies in the full persuasion that they would an- 
nounce it to the astonished world by some phe- 
nomena of terrific portent. — Yesternight until a 
very late hour did I wait with anxious horror, 
for the appearance of some comet firing half the 
sky ; or aerial armies of sanguinary Scandina- 
vians, darting athwart the startled heavens, rapid 
as the ragged lightning, and horrid as those con- 
vulsions of nature that bury nations. 

The el >ments, however, seem to take the mat- 
ter very quietly : they did not even usher in this 
morning with triple suns and a shower of blood, 
symbolical of the three potent heroes, and the 
mighty claret-shed of the day. —For me, as 



Thomson in his Winter says of the storm— I 
shall " Hear astonished, and astonished sing 

The whistle and the man ; I sing 
The man that won the whistle, &c. 

Here are we met, three merry boys, 
Three merry boys I trow are we ; 

And mony a night we've merry been. 
And mony mae we hope to be. 

Wha first shall rise to gang awa, 

A cuckold coward loun is he : 
Wha last beside his chair shall fa' 

He is the king amang us three. 

To leave the heights of Parnassus and come to 
the humble vale of prose. — I have some misgiv- 
ings that I take too much upon me, when I re- 
quest you to get your guest, Sir Robert Lowrie, 
to frank the two enclosed covers for me, the 
one of them, to Sir William Cunningham, of 
Robertland, Bart, at Kilmarnock, — the other to 
Mr. Allan Masterton, Writing-Master, Edin- 
burgh. The first has a kindred claim on Sir 
Robert, as being a brother Baronet, and likewise 
a keen Foxite ; the other is one of the worthiest 
men in the world, and a man of real genius ; so, 
allow me to say, he has a fraternal claim on you. 
I want them franked for to-morrow, as I cannot 
get them to the post to-night. — I shall send a 
servant again for them in the evening. Wishing 
that your head may be crowned with laurels to- 
night, and free from aches to-morrow, 
I have the honour to be, Sir, 
Your deeply indebted humble Servant, 
R. B. 



CLXXIII. 

^o Captain 3fttt)uel. 

[Robert Riddel kept one of those present pests of society — an 
album— into which Burns copied the Lines on the Hermitage, and 
the Wounded Hare.] 

EUisland, 1789. 
Sir, 
I v/isii from my inmost soul it were in my 
power to give you a more substantial gratifica- 
tion and return for all the goodness to the poet, 
than transcribing a few of his idle rhymes. — 
However, " an old song," though to a proverb 
an instance of insignificance, is generally the 
only coin a poet has to pay with. 

If my poems which I have transcribed, and 
mean still to transcribe into your book, were 
equal to the grateful respect and high esteem I 
bear for the gentleman to whom I present them, 
they would be the finest poems in the language. 
— As they are, they will at least be a testimony 
with what sincerity I have the honour to be, 
Sir, 
Your devoted humble Servant, 

R. B. 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



317 



CLXXIV 
Eo J&r. Mobcrt Sltajslte 



[Tlie '^n.ominy of a poet becoming a gauget seems ever to r 
been present to the mind of Uurns— but those moving things 
wives and weans have a strong influence on the actions of man.] 



Ellisland, 1st Nov. 1789. 
My dear Friend, 

I had written you long ere now, could I have 
guessed where to find you, for I am sure you 
have more good sense than to waste the precious 
days of vacation time in the dirt of business and 
Edinburgh. — Wherever you are, God bless you, 
and lead you not into temptation, but deliver 
you from evil ! 

I do not know if I have informed you that I 
am now appointed to an excise division, in the 
middle of which my house and farm lie. In this 
I was extremely lucky. Without ever having 
been an expectant, as they call their journeymen 
excisemen, I was directly planted down to all 
.intents and purposes an officer of excise ; there 
to flourish and bring forth fruits — worthy of re- 
pentance. 

I know not how the word exciseman, or still 
more opprobrious, gauger, will sound in your 
ears. I too have seen the day when my auditory 
nerves would have felt very delicately on this 
subject ; but a wife and children are things 
which have a wonderful power in blunting these 
kind of sensations. Fifty pounds a year for life, 
and a provision for widows and orphans, you will 
allow is no bad settlement for a poet. For the 
ignominy of the profession, I have the encou- 
ragement which I once heard a recruiting ser- 
geant give to a numerous, if not a respectable 
audience, in the streets of Kilmarnock. — " Gen- 
tlemen, for your further and better encourage- 
ment, I can assure you that our regiment is the 
most blackguard corps under the crown, and 
consequently with us an honest fellow has the 
surest chance for preferment." 

You need not doubt that I find several very 
unpleasant and disagreeable circumstances in my 
business ; but I am tired with and disgusted at 
the language of complaint against the evils of 
life. Human existence in the most favourable 
situations does not abound with pleasures, and 
has its inconveniences and ills ; capricious foolish 
man mistakes these inconveniencies and ills as 
if they were the peculiar property of his parti- 
cular situation ; and hence that eternal fickle- 
ness, that love of change, which has ruined, and 
daily does ruin many a fine fellow, as well as 
many a blockhead, and is almost, without ex- 
ception, a constant source of disappointment and 
misery. 

I long to hear from you how you go on — not 
so much in business as in life. Are you pretty 
well satisfied with your own exertions, and 
tolerably at ease in your internal reflections ? 
"Tie much to be a great character as a lawyer, 



but beyond comparison more to be a great cha- 
racter as a man. That you may be both the 
one and the other is the earnest wish, and that 
you will be both is the firm persuasion of, 
My dear Sir, Sec. 

R. B. 



CLXXV 
^o i&r. fttdjart) 33vohm. 



[With this letter closes the correspondence of Robert Hums ana 
Richard Brown. | 



Ellisland, 4th November, 1789. 
I have been so hurried, my ever dear friend, 
that though I got both your letters, I have not 
been able to command an hour to answer them 
as I wished ; and even now, you are to look on 
this as merely confessing debt, and craving days. 
Few things could have given me so much plea- 
sure as the news that you were once more safe 
and sound on terra firma, and happy in that 
place where happiness is alone to be found, in 
the fireside circle. May the benevolent Director 
of all things peculiarly bless you in all those en- 
dearing connexions consequent on the tender 
and venerable names of husband and father ! I 
have indeed been extremely lucky in getting an 
additional income of £50 a year, while, at the 
same time, the appointment will not cost me above 
£10 or £12 per annum of expenses more than I 
must have inevitably incurred. The worst cir- 
cumstance is, that the excise division which I 
have got is so extensive, no less than ten parishes 
to ride over ; and it abounds besides with so 
much business, that I can scarcely steal a spare 
moment. However, labour endears rest, and 
both together are absolutely necessary for the 
proper enjoyment of human existence. I cannot 
meet you any where. No less than an order from 
the Board of Excise, at Edinburgh, is necessary 
before I can have so much time as to meet you 
in Ayrshire. But do you come, and see me. 
We must have a social day, and perhaps lengthen 
it out with half the night, before you go again to 
sea. You are the earliest friend I now have on 
earth, my brothers excepted ; and is not that an 
endearing circumstance ? When you and I first 
met, we were at the green period of human life. 
The twig would easily take a bent, but would as 
easily return to its former state. You and I 
not only took a mutual bent, but, by the melan- 
choly, though strong influence of being both of 
the family of the unfortunate, we were entwined 
with one another in our growth towards ad- 
vanced age; and blasted be the sacrilegious 
hand that shall attempt to undo the union ! You 
and I must have one bumper to my favourite 
toast, " May the companions of our youth be the 
friends of our old age !" Come and see me one 
year ; I shall see you at Port Glasgow the next, 

4 ai 



aia 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



and if we caii contrive to have a gossiping be- 
tween our two bed-fellows, it will be so much 
additional pleasure. Mrs. Burns joins me in 
kind compliments to you and Mrs. Brown. 
Adieu ! 

I am ever, my dear Sir, yours, 

R. B. 



CLXXVI. 
$o ft. (Srajjam, lEsg. 



[The poet enclosed in this letter to his patron in the Excise the 
clever verses on Captain Grose, the Kirk'3 Alarm, and the first bal- 
lad on Captain Miller's election.] 



Sir, 



9th December, 1789. 



I have a good while had a wish to trouble 
you with a letter, and had certainly done it long 
ere now — but for a humiliating something that 
throws cold water on the resolution, as if one 
should say, " You have found Mr. Graham a 
very powerful and kind friend indeed, and that 
interest he is so kindly taking in your concerns, 
you ought by every thing in your power to keep 
alive aud cherish." Now though since God has 
thought proper to make one powerful and an- 
other helpless, the connexion of obliger and 
obliged is all fair ; and though my being under 
your patronage is to me highly honourable, yet, 
Sir, allow me to flatter myself, that, as a poet 
and an honest man you first interested yourself 
in my welfare, and principally as such, still you 
permit me to approach you. 

I have found the excise business go on a great 
deal smoother with me than I expected ; owing 
a good deal to the generous friendship of Mr. 
Mitchel, my collector, and the kind assistance 
of Mr. Findlater, my supervisor. I dare to be 
honest, and I fear no labour. Nor do I find my 
hurried lite greatly inimical to my correspon- 
dence with the muses. Their visits to me, in- 
deed, and I believe to most of their acquaintance, 
like the visits of good angels, are short and far 
between : but I meet them now and then as I 
jog through the hills of Nithsdale, just as I used 
to do on the banks of Ayr. I take the liberty 
to enclose you a few bagatelles, all of them the 
productions of my leisure thoughts in my excise 
rides. 

If you know or have ever seen Captain Grose, 
the antiquarian, you will enter into any humour 
that is in the verses on him. Perhaps you have 
seen them before, as I sent them to a London 
newspaper. Though I dare say you have none 
of the solemn-league-and-covenant fire, which 
shone so conspicuous in Lord George Gordon, 
and the Kilmarnock weavers, yet I think you 
must have heard of Dr. M'Gill, one of the cler- 
gymen of Ayr, and his heretical book. God 
help Lim, poor man ! Though he is one of the 



worthiest, as well as one of the ablest of the 
whole priesthood of the Kirk of Scotland, in 
every sense of that ambiguous term, yet the 
poor Doctor and his numerous family are in 
imminent danger of being thrown out to the 
mercy of the winter- winds. The enclosed bal- 
lad on that business is, I confess, too local, but 
I laughed myself at some conceits in it, though 
I am convinced in my conscience that there are 
a good many heavy stanzas in it too. 

The election ballad, as you will see, alludes to 
the present canvass in our string of boroughs. 
I do not believe there will be such a hard-run 
match in the whole general election. 

I am too little a man to have any political 
attachments; I am deeply indebted to, and 
have the warmest veneration for, individuals of 
both parties ; but a "nan who has it in his power 
to be the father of his country, and who * * * * *, 
is a character that one cannot speak of with 
patience. 

Sir J. J. does " what man can do," but yet I 
doubt his fate. 



CLXXVIL 
®o 0tx$. SBunlop. 



[Burns was often a prey to lowiiess of spirits : at this some dull 
men have marvelled ; but the dull have no misgivings : they gc 
blindly and stupidly on, like a horse in a mill, and have none of the 
r joys to which genius is heir to.J 



Ellisland, 13th December, 1789. 
Many thanks, dear Madam, for your sheet- 
full of rhymes. Though at present I am below 
the veriest prose, yet from you every thing 
pleases. I am groaning under the miseries of a 
diseased nervous system ; a system, the state of 
which is most conducive to our happiness — or 
the most productive of our misery. For now 
near three weeks I have been so ill with a nerv- 
ous head-ache, that I have been obliged for a 
time to give up my excise-books, being scarce 
able to lift my head, much less to ride once a 
week over ten muir parishes. What is man ? — 
To-day in the luxuriance of health, exulting in 
the enjoyment of existence ; in a few days, per- 
haps in a few hours, loaded with conscious pain- 
ful being, counting the tardy pace of the linger- 
ing moments by the repercussions of ang-uish, 
and refusing or denied a comforter. Day fol- 
lows night, and night comes after day, only to 
curse him with life which gives him no plea- 
sure and yet the awful, dark termination of 
that life is something at which he recoils. 

" Tell us, ye dead ; will none of you in pity 

Disclose the secret 

What 'tis you are, and we must shortly be? 
-*tis no matter: 



A little time will make us learn'tl as you arp.*' 1 



■ Ulnar's Grave. 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



31U 



Can it bo possible, that when I resign this 
frail, feverish being, I shall still find myself in 
conscious existence ? When the last gasp of 
agony has announced that I am no more to those 
that knew me, and the few who loved me ; when 
the cold, stiffened, unconscious, ghastly corse is 
resigned into the earth, to be the prey of un- 
sightly reptiles, and to become in time a trodden 
clod, shall I be yet warm in life, seeing and seen, 
enjoying and enjoyed ? Ye venerable sages and 
holy flamens, is there probability in your conjec- 
tures, truth in your stories, of another world be- 
yond death; or are they all alike, baseless visions, 
and fabricated fables ? If there is another life, it 
must be only for the just, the benevolent, the ami- 
able, and the humane ; what a flattering idea, 
then, is a world to come ! Would to God I as 
firmly believed it, as I ardently wish it ! There I 
should meet an aged parent, now at rest from the 
many buffetings of an evil world, against which he 
so long and so bravely struggled. There should 
I meet the friend, the disinterested friend of my 
early life ; the man who rejoiced to see me, be- 
cause he loved me and could serve me. — Muir, 
thy weaknesses were the aberrations of human 
nature, but thy heart glowed with every thing 
generous, manly and noble ; and if ever emana- 
tion from the All-good Being animated a human 
form, it was thine ! There should I, with speech- 
less agony of rapture, again recognize my lost, 
my ever dear Mary ! whose bosom was fraught 
with truth, honour, constancy, and love. 

" My Mary, dear departed shade ! 

Where is thy place of heavenly rest ? 
Sees* thou thy lover lowly laid ? 

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his 
breast ?" 

Jesus Christ, thou amiablest of characters ! I 
trust thou art no impostor, and that thy reve- 
lation of blissful scenes of existence beyond 
death and the grave, is not one of the many im- 
positions which time after time have been 
palmed on credulous mankind. I trust that in 
thee " shall all the families of the earth be 
blessed," by being yet connected together in a 
better world, where every tie that bound heart 
to heart, in this state of existence, shall be, 
far beyond our present conceptions, more en- 
dearing. 

I am a good deal inclined to think with those 
who maintain, that what are called nervous af- 
fections are in fact diseases of the mind. I can- 
not reason, I cannot think ; and but to you I 
would not venture to write any thing above an 
order to a cobbler. You have felt too much of 
the ills of life not to sympathise with a diseased 
wretch, who has impaired more than half of any 
faculties he possessed. Your goodness will 
excuse this distracted scrawl, which the writer 
dare scarcely read, and which he would throw 
mto the fire, were he able to write any thing 
better, or indeed any thing at all. 

Rumour told me something of a son of yours. 



who was returned from the East or West Indies. 
If you have gotten news from James or Anthony, 
it was cruel in you not to let me know; as I 
promise you on the sincerity of a man, wbo is 
weary of one world, and anxious about another, 
that scarce any thing could give me so much 
pleasure as to hear of any good thing befalling 
my honoured friend. 

If you have a minute's leisure, take up your 
pen in pity to le pauvre miserable. 

R. B. 



CLXXVTII 
®o &aug 8&[fnffrrt]i!W[aitocn] ©owrtabl*. 



[The Lady Winifred Maxwell, the last of the old line of Niths- 
dale, was granddaughter of that Earl who, in 1715, made an almost 
miraculous escape from death, through the spirit and fortitude of his 
countess, a lady of the noble family of Powis.] 



Ellisland, \Qlh December, 1789. 
My Lady, 
In vain have I from day to day expected to 
hear from Mrs. Young, as she promised me at 
Dalswinton that she would do me the honour to 
introduce me at Tinwald ; and it was impossible, 
not from your ladyships accessibility, but from 
my own feelings, that I could go alone. Lately, 
indeed, Mr. Maxwell of Carruchen, in his usual 
goodness, offered to accompany me, when an 
unlucky indisposition on my part hindered my 
embracing the opportunity. To court the notice 
or the tables of the great, except where I some- 
times have had a little matter to ask of them, 
or more often the pleasanter task of witnessing 
my gratitude to them, is what I never have done, 
and I trust never shall do. But with your lady- 
ship I have the honour to be connected by one 
of the strongest and most endearing ties in the 
whole moral world. Common sufferers, in a 
cause where even to be unfortunate is glorious, 
the cause of heroic loyalty ! Though my fathers 
had not illustrious honours and vast properties 
to hazard in the contest, though they left their 
humble cottages only to add so many units more 
to the unnoted crowd that followed their leaders, 
yet what they could they did, and what they 
had they lost ; with unshaken firmness and un- 
concealed political attachments, they shook 
hands with ruin for what they esteemed the 
cause of their king and their country. The lan- 
guage and the enclosed verses are for your lady- 
ship's eye alone. Poets are not very famous 
for their prudence ; but as I can do nothing for 
a cause which is now nearly no more, I do not 
wish to hurt myself. 

I have the honour to be, 
My lady, 
Your ladyship's obliged and obedient 

Humble Servant, 
R.B. 



320 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



CLXXIX. 

£o $JiobO{St i&axfocll, 

OF LOCHMABEN. 



Of Loehmaben, the" Marjory of themony Lochs" of the election 
tvulads, Maxwell was at this time provost, a post more of honour 
tL.u, of labour.] 

Ellisland, 20th December, 1789. 
Beak Provost, 

As my friend Mr. Graham goes for your good 
town to-morrow, I cannot resist the temptation 
to send you a few lines, and as I have nothing to 
say I have chosen this sheet of foolscap, and begun 
as you see at the top of the first page, because 
I have ever observed, that when once people 
have fairly set out they know not where to stop. 
Now that my first sentence is concluded, I have 
nothing to do but to pray heaven to help me on 
to another. Shall I write you on Politics or Reli- 
gion, two master subjects for your sayers of no- 
thing. Of the first I dare say by this time you 
are nearly surfeited : and for the last, whatever 
they may talk of it, who make it a kind of com- 
pany concern, I never could endure it beyond a 
soliloquy. I might write you on farming, on 
building, on marketing, but my poor distracted 
mind is so torn, so jaded so racked and bediveled 
with the task of the superlative damned to 
make one guinea do the business of three, that I de- 
test, abhor, and swoon at the very word business, 
though no less than four letters of my very short 
sirname are in it. 

Well, to make the matter short, I shall be- 
take myself to a subject ever fruitful of themes ; 
a subject the turtle-feast of the sons of Satan, 
and the delicious secret sugar-plum of the babes 
of grace — a subject sparkling with all the jewels 
that wit can find in the mines of genius : and 
pregnant with all the stores of learning from 
Moses and Confucius to Franklin and Priestley 
— in short may it please your Lordship, I intend 
to write * * * 

[Here the Poet inserted a song which can only be 
sung at times when the punch-bowl has done its 
duty and wild wit is set free.} 

If at any time you expect a field-day in your 
town, a day when Dukes, Earls, and Knights 
pay their court to weavers, tailors and cobblers, 
I should like to know of it two or three days be- 
forehand. It is not that I care three skips of a 
cur dog for the politics, but I should like to see 
such an exhibition of human nature. If you 
meet with that worthy old veteran in reli- 
gion and good-fellowship, Mr. Jeffrey, or any 
of his amiable family, I beg you will give them 
my best compliments. 

R.P.. 



CLXXX. 



[Of the Monkland Book-Club alluded to in this letter, the clergy- 
man had omitted all mention in his account of the Pa.-ish of Dud* 
score, published in Sir John Sinclair's work : some of the books whicb 
the poet introduced were stigmatized as vain and frivolous. I 



Sir, 



1790. 



The following circumstance has I believe, 
been omitted in the satistical account, trans- 
mitted to you of the parish of Dunscore, in Nits- 
dale. I beg leave to send it to you because it is 
new, and may be useful. How far it is deserv- 
ing of a place in your patriotic publication, you 
are the best judge. 

To store the minds of the lower classes with 
useful knowledge, is certainly of very great im- 
portance, both to them as individuals, and to 
society at large. Giving them a turn for read- 
ing and reflection, is giving them a source of in- 
nocent and laudable amusement ; and besides, 
raises them to a, more dignified degree in the 
scale of rationality. Impressed with, this idea, 
a gentleman in this parish, Robert Rirldel, Esq. 
of Glenriddel, get on foot a species of cir- 
culating library, on a plan so simple as to be 
practicable in any corner of the country ; and so 
useful, as to deserve the notice of every country 
gentleman, who thinks the improvement of that 
part of his own species, whom chance has 
thrown into the humble walks of the peasant 
and the artizan, a matter worthy of his atten- 
tion. 

Mr. Riddel got a number of his own tenants, 
and farming neighbours, to form themselves into 
a society for the purpose of having a library 
among themselves. Thy entered into a legal 
engagement to abide by it for three years ; with 
a saving clause or two, in case of a removal to a 
distance, or death. Each member at his entry, 
paid five shillings ; and at each of their meetings, 
which were held every fourth Saturday, six- 
pence more. With their entry-money, and 
the credit which they took on the faith of their 
future funds, they laid in a tolerable stock of 
books at the commencement. What authors 
they were to purchase, was always decided by 
the majority. At every meeting, all the books, 
under certain fines and forfeitures, by way of 
penalty, were to be produced ; and the mem- 
bers had their choice of the volumes in rotation. 
He whose name stood for that night first on 
the list, had his choice of what volume he 
pleased in the whole collection; the second 
had his choice after the first ; the third after 
the second, and so on to the last. At next 
meeting, he who had been first on the list at 
the preceding meeting, was last at this ; he who 
had been second was first ; and so on through the 
whole three years. At the expiration of the en- 
gagement the books were sold by auction, but only 
among themembers themselves ; each man had his 



OF ROISUKT BURNS. 



321 



sh**re of the common stock, in money or in 
books, as he chose to be a purchaser or not. 

At the breaking up of this little society, which 
was formed under Mr. Riddel's patronage, what 
with benefactions of books from him, and what 
with their own purchases, they had collected toge- 
ther upwards of one hundred and fifty volumes. 
It will easily be guessed, that a good deal of trash 
would be bought. Among the books, however, 
of this little library, were, Blanks Sermons, Ro- 
bertson's History of Scotland, Hume's History of 
the Stewarts, The Spectator, Idler, Adventurer, 
Mirror, Lounger, Observer, Man of Feeling, Man 
of the World, Ghrysal, Don Quixote, Joseph An- 
drews, S^o. A peasant who can read, and enjoy 
such books, is certainly a much superior being 
to his neighbour, who perhaps stalks beside his 
team, very little removed, except in shape, from 
the brutes he drives. 

Wishing your patriotic exertions their so 
much merited success, 

I am, Sir, 

Your humble servant, 

A Peasant. 



CLXXX1. 

©fjarles j&fjarpe, Ic^., 

OF HODDAM. 



["The family of Hoddam is of old standing in Nithsdale : it has 
mingled blood with some of the noblest Scottish names; nor is it 
unknown either in history or literature— the fierce knight of Close- 
burn, who in the scuffle between Bruce and Comyne drew his sword 
and made " sicker," and my friend Charles Kixkpatrick Sharpe, are 
not the least distinguished of its members.] 

[1790.] 
It is true, Sir, you are a gentleman of rank 
and fortune, and I am a poor devil : you are a 
feather in the cap of society, and I am a very 
hobnail in his shoes ; yet I have the honour to 
belong to the same family with you, and on that 
score I now address you. You will perhaps 
suspect that I am going to claim affinity with 
the ancient and honourable house of Kirkpa- 
trick. No, no, Sir : I cannot indeed be properly 
said to belong to any house, or even any province 
or kingdom ; as my mother, who for many years 
was spouse to a marching regiment, gave me into 
this bad world, aboard the packet-boat, some- 
where between Donaghadee and Portpatrick. 
By our common family, I mean, Sir, the family 
of the muses. I am a fiddler and a poet ; and 
you, I am told, play an exquisite violin, and have 
a standard taste in the Belles Letters. The 
other day, a brother catgut gave me a charming 
Scots air of your composition. If I was pleased 
with the tune, I was in raptures with the title 
you have given it; and taking up the idea I 
have spun it into the threo stanzas enclosed. 
Will you al'ow me, Sir, to present you them, as 



| the dearest offering that a misbegotten son of 
I poverty and rhyme has to give ? I have a long- 
I ing to take you by the hand and unburthen my 
heart by saying, " Sir, I honour you as a man who 
supports the dignity of human nature, amid an 
age when frivolity and avarice have, between 
them, debased us below the brutes that perish !'* 
But, alas, Sir ! to me you are unapproachable. 
It is true, the muses baptized me in Castahan 
streams, but the thoughtless gipsies forgot to 
give me a name. As the sex have served many 
a good fellow, the Nine have given me a great 
deal of pleasure, but, bewitching jades ! they 
have beggared me. Woidd they but spare mo 
a little of their cast-linen ! Were it only in my 
power to say that I have a shirt on my back ! 
But the idle wenches, like Solomon's lilies, 
" they toil not, neither do they spin ;" so I must 
e'en continue to tie my remnant of a cravat, 
like the hangman's rope, round my naked throat, 
and coax my galligaskins to keep together their 
many-coloured fragments. As to the affair of 
shoes, I have given that up. My pilgrimages in 
my ballad-trade, from town to town, and on your 
stony-hearted turnpikes too, are what not even 
the hide of Job's Behemoth could bear. The 
coat on my back is no more : I shall not speak 
evil of the dead. It would be equally unhand- 
some and ungrateful to find fault with my old 
surtout, which so kindly supplies and conceals 
the want of that coat. My hat indeed is a great 
favourite ; and though I got it literally for an 
old song, I would not exchange it for the best 
beaver in Britain. I was, during several years, 
a kind of fac-totum servant to a country clergy- 
man, where I pickt up a good many scraps of 
learning, particularly in some branches of the 
mathematics. Whenever I feel inclined to rest 
myself on my way, I take my seat under a hedge, 
laying my poetic wallet on the one side, and my 
fiddle-case on the other, and placing my hat be- 
tween my legs, I can, by means of its brim, or 
rather brims, go through the whole doctrine of 
the conic sections. 

However, Sir, don't let me mislead you, as if I 
would interest your pity. Fortune has so much 
forsaken me, that she has taught me to live 
without her ; and amid all my rags and poverty, 
I am as independent, and much more happy, 
than a monarch of the world. According to the 
hackneyed metaphor, I value the several actors 
in the great drama of life, simply as they act 
their parts. I can look on a worthless fellow of 
a duke with unqualified contempt, and can re- 
gard an honest scavenger with sincere respect. 
As you, Sir, go through your role with such dis- 
tinguished merit, permit me to make one in the 
chorus of universal applause, and assure you that 
with the highest respect, 

I have the honour to be, &c. 

Johnny Faa. 



322 



CLXXX1I. 
Co iUli. <&i\hm tturna- 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 

CLXXXIV. 
3To MUiam Dunbar, 8St t j& 



[In the few fierce words of this letter the poet bids adieu to all 
hopes of wealth from Ellisland.] 



Ellis land, llth January, 1790. 
Dear Brother, 

I mean to take advantage of the frank, though 
I have not, in my present frame of mind, much 
appetite for exertion in writing. My nerves are 
in a cursed state. I feel that horrid hypochon- 
dria pervading every atom of both body and 
soul. This farm has undone my enjoyment of 
myself. It is a ruinous affair on all hands. But 
let it go to hell ! I'll fight it out and be off with 
it. 

We have gotten a set of very decent players 
here just now. I have seen them an evening 
or two. David Campbell, in Ayr, wrote to me 
by the manager of the company, a Mr. Suther- 
land, who is a man of apparent worth. On New- 
year-day evening I gave him the following pro- 
logue-, which he spouted to his audience with 
applause. 

No song nor dance I bring from yon great city, 
That queens it o'er our taste — the more's the 

pity: 
Tho', by the bye, abroad why will you roam ? 
Good sense and taste are natives here at home. 

I can no more. — If once I was clear of this 
cursed farm, I should respire more at ease. 

R.B. 



CLXXXIII 
fto 0Lx. jeutfKdanfc, 

PLAYER, 
ENCLOSING A PROLOGUE. 



I When the farm failed, the poet sought pleasure in the playhouse : 
he tried to retire from his own harassing reflections, into a world 
created by other minds.; 



Monday Morning. 
I was much disappointed, my dear Sir, in 
wanting your most agreeable company yesterday. 
However, I heartily pray for good weather next 
Sunday ; and whatever aerial Being has the 
guidance of the elements, may take any other 
half-dozen of Sundays he pleases, and clothe 
them with 

" Vapours, and clouds, and storms, 
Until he terrify himself 
Atcombusrion of his own raising." 

I i.hall see you on Wednesday forenoon. In 
the greatest hurry, 

II. B. 



[This latter was first published by the Ettrick Shepherd, in his 
edition of Burns: it is remarkable for this sentence, " 1 am resolved 
never to bleed up a son of mine to any of the learned professions, i 
know the value of independence, and since I cannot give my sons 
an independent fortune, I shall give them an independent line of life." 
We may look round us and enquire which line of life the poet could 
possibly mean-] 



Ellisand, \4th January, 179fr. 

Since we are here creatures of a day, since 
u a few summer days, and a few winter nights, 
and the life of man is at an end," why, my dear 
much-esteemed Sir, should you and I let negli- 
gent indolence, for I know it is nothing worse, 
step in between us and bar the enjoyment of a 
mutual correspondence ? We are not shapen 
out of the common, heavy, methodical clod, the 
elemental stuff of the plodding selfish race, the 
sons of Arithmetic and Prudence ; our feelings 
and hearts are not benumbed and poisoned by the 
cursed influence of riches, which, whatever 
blessing they may be in other respects, are no 
friends to the nobler qualities of the heart : in 
the name of random sensibility, then, let never 
the moon change on our silence any more. I 
have had a tract of bad health most part of this 
winter, else you had heard from me long ere 
now. Thank Heaven, I am now got so much 
better as to be able to partake a little in the 
enjoyments of iife. 

Our friend Cunningham will, perhaps, have 
told you of my going into the Excise. The 
truth is, I found it a very convenient business 
to have £50 per annum, nor have I yet felt any 
of those mortifying circumstances in it that I 
was led to fear. 

Feb. 2. 

I have not, for sheer hurry of business, been 
able to spare five minutes to finish my letter. 
Besides my farm business, I ride on my Excise 
matters at least two hundred miles every week. 
I have not by any means given up- the muses. 
You will see in the 3d vol. of Johnson's Scots 
songs that I have contributed my mite there. 

But, my dear Sir, little ones that look up to 
you for paternal protection are an important 
charge. I have already too fine, healthy, stout 
little fellows, and I wish to throw some light 
upon them. I have a thousand reveries and 
schemes about them, and their future destiny. 
Not that I am a Utopian projector in these 
things. I am resolved never to breed up a son 
of mine to any of the learned professions. I 
know the value of independence ; and since I 
.cannot give my sons an independent fortune, I 
shall give them an independent line of life. 
What a chaos of hurry, chance, and changes is 
this world, when one sits soberly down to refect 
on it! To a father, who himself knows the 
world, the thought that he shall have sons to 
usher into it must fill him with dread; but if he 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



328 



have daughters, the prospect in a thoughtful 
moment is apt to shock him. 

I hope Mrs. Fordyce and the two young ladies 
are well. Do let me forget that they are nieces 
of yours, and let me say that I never saw a more 
interesting, sweeter pair of sisters in my life. I 
am the fool of my feelings and attachments. I 
often take up a volume of my Spenser to realise 
you to my imagination, and think over the so- 
cial scenes we have had together. God grant 
that there may be another world more congenial 
to honest fellows beyond this. A world where 
these rubs and plagues of absence, distance, 
misfortunes, ill-health, &c, shall no more damp 
hilarity and divide friendship. This I know is 
your throng season, but half a page will much 
oblige, 

My dear Sir, 

Yours sincerely. 

R. B. 



CLXXXV. 
t£o 0Lx*. Dunlop. 



,' Falconer, the poet, whom Burns mentions here, perished in the 
Aurora, in which he acted as purser : he was a satirist of no mean 
power, and wrote that useful work, the Marine Dictionary: but his 
fame depends upon " The Shipwreck," one of the most original and 
mournful poems in the language.] 



Ellisiand, 25th January, 1790. 

It has been owing to unremitting hurry of 
business that I have not written to you, Madam, 
long ere now. My health is greatly better, and 
I now begin once more to share in satisfaction 
and enjoyment with the rest of my fellow-crea- 
tures. 

Many thanks, my much-esteemed friend, for 
your kind letters ; but why will you make me 
run the risk of being contemptible and merce- 
nary in my own eyes .' When I pique myself on 
my independent spirit, I hope it is neither poetic 
licence, nor poetic rant ; and I am so flattered 
with the honour you have done me, in making 
me your compeer in friendship and friendly cor- 
respondence, that I cannot without pain, and a 
degree of mortification, be reminded of the real 
inequality between our situations. 

Most sincerely do I rejoice with you, dear 
Madam, in the good news of Anthony. Not 
only your anxiety about his fate, but my own 
esteem for such a noble, warm-hearted, manly 
young fellow, in the little I had of his ac- 
quaintance, has interested me deeply in his 
fortunes. 

Falconer, the unfortunate author of the " Ship- 
wreck," which you so much admire, is no more. 
After witnessing the dreadful catastrophe he so 
feelingly describes in his poem, and after wea- 
thering many hard gales of fortune, he went to 
the bottom with the Aurora frigate ! 



I forget what part of Scotland had the honour 
of giving him birth; but he was the son of ob- 
scurity and misfortune. He was one of those 
daring adventurous spirits, which Scotland, be- 
yond any other country, is remarkable for pro- 
ducing. Little does the fond mother think, as 
she hangs delighted over the sweet little leech 
at her bosom, where the poor fellow may here- 
after wander, and what may be his fate. I re- 
member a stanza in an old Scottish ballad, which, 
notwithstanding its rude simplicity, speaks feel- 
ingly to the heart : 

'* Little did my mothi-r think, 
That, day she cradled me, 
Wliat land I was to travel in, 
Or what death I should die ! ' » 

Old Scottish songs are, you know, a favourite 
study and pursuit of mine, and now I am on 
that subject, allow me to give you two stanzas of 
another old simple ballad, which I am sure will 
please you. The catastrophe of the piece is a 
poor ruined female, lamenting her fate. She 
concludes with this pathetic wish : — 

" O that my father had ne'er on me smil'd ; 
O that my mother had ne'er to me sung ! 
O that my cradle had never been rock'd j 
But that 1 had died when I was young ! 

O that the grave it were my bed ; 

My blankets were my winding sheet ; 
The clocks and the worms my bedfellows a' ; 

And O sae sound as 1 should sleep !" 

I do not remember in all my reading, to have 
met with any thing more truly the language of 
misery, than the exclamation in the last line. 
Misery is like love; to speak its language truly, 
the author must have felt it. 

I am every day expecting the doctor to give 
your little godson 2 the small-pox. They are 
rife in the country, and I tremble for his fate. 
By the way, I cannot help congratulating you on 
his looks and spirit. Every person who sees 
him, acknowledges him to be the finest, hand- 
somest child he has ever seen. I am myself de- 
lighted with the manly swell of his little chest, 
and a certain miniature dignity in the carriage 
of his head, and the glance of his fine black eye, 
which promise the undaunted gallantry of an 
independent mind. 

I thought to have sent you some rhymes, but 
time forbids. I promise you poetry until you 
are tired of it, next time I have the honour of 
assuring you how truly I am, &c. 

R. B. 



1 The bal 1 ad isln tne Minstrelsy of the Scotch Herder, ed. 1833. 
ro\. iii. p. 304. 

2 The bard's second son, Francis. 



324 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



CLXXXV1. 
^o J*tr. ^eter Will, 

BOOKSELLER, EDINBURGH. 

•"The M ademoiselle Earns whom the poet enquires about, was one 
Of the "ladies of the Canongate," who desired to introduce free 
trade in her profession into a close borough : this was refused by the 
magistrates of Edinburgh, though advocated with much eloquence 
and humour in a letter by her namesake— it is coloured wo strongly 
with her calling to be published ) 

Elliskmd, 2nd Feb. 1790. 
No ! I will not say one word about apologies 
or excuses for not writing.— I am a poor, rascally 
gauger, condemned to gallop at least 200 miles 
every week to inspect dirty ponds and yeasty 
barrels, and where can I. find time to write to, 
or importance to interest any body? theup- 
braidings of my conscience, nay the upbraidings 
of my wife, have persecuted me on your account 
these two or three months past. — I wish to God 
I was a great man, that my. correspondence 
might throw light upon you, to let the world 
see what you really are : and then I would make 
your fortune without putting my -hand in my 
pocket for you, which, like all other great men, 
I suppose I would avoid as much as possible. 
What are you doing, and how are you doing ? 
Have you lately seen any of my few ' friends ? 
What is become of the borough reform, or 
how is the fate of my poor namesake, Mademoi- 
selle Burns, decided ? O man ! but for thee and 
thy selfish appetites, and dishonest artifices, that 
beauteous form, and that once innocent and 
still ingenuous mind, might have shone conspicu- 
ous and lovely in the faithful wife, and the affec- 
tionate mother ; and shall the unfortunate sa- 
crifice to thy pleasures have no claim on thy 
humanity ! 

J saw lately in a Review, some extracts from 
a new poem, called the Village Curate ; send it 
me. I want likewise a cheap copy of The 
World. Mr. Armstrong, the young poet, who 
does me the honour to mention me so kindly in 
his works, please give him my best thanks for 
the copy of his book — I shall write him, my 
first leisure hour. I like his poetry much, but I 
think his style in prose quite astonishing. 

Your book came safe, and I am going to 
. trouble you with further commissions. I call it 
troubling you, — because I want only, books ; 
the cheapest way, the best ; so you may have 
to hunt for them in the evening auctions. I 
want Smollett's works, for the sake of his in- 
comparable humour. I have already Roderick 
Random, and Humphrey Clinker. — Peregrine 
Pickle, Launcelot Greaves, and Ferdinand, 
Count Fathom, I still want ; but as I said, the 
veriest ordinary copies will serve me. I am 
nice only in the appearance of my poets. I 
forget the price of Cowper's Poems, but, I be- 
lieve, I must have them. I saw the other day, 
proposals for a publication, entitled, " Banks's 
new and complete Christian's Family Bible," 
printed for C. Cooke Paternoster-row, London. 



— He promises at least, to give in the work, I 
think it is three hundred and odd engravings, to 
which he has put the names of the first artists 
in London. — You will know the character of the 
performance, as some numbers of it are pub- 
lished; and if it is really what it pretends to be, 
set me down as a subscriber, and send me the 
published numbers. 

Let me hear from you, your first leisure 
minute, and trust me you shall in future have 
no reason to complain of my silence. The daz- 
zling perplexity of novelty will dissipate and 
leave me to pursue my course in the quiet path 
of methodical routine. 

ti. B. 



CLXXXVXI. 



[The poet has recorded this unlooked-for death of the Dominie's 
mare in some hasty verses, which are not much superior to the sub- 
ject,] 

Ellislqnd,Feb. 9, 1790: 
My dear Sir, 

That d-mned mare of yours is dead. I would 
freely have given her price to have saved her; 
she has vexed me beyond description. Indebted 
as I was to your goodness beyond what I can 
ever repay, I eagerly grasped at your offer to 
have the mare with me. That I might at least 
show my readiness in wishing to be grateful, I 
took every care of her in my power. She was 
never crossed for riding above half a score of 
times by me or in my keeping. I drew her in 
the plough, one of three, for one poor week. I 
refused fifty-five shillings for her, which was the 
highest bode I could squeeze for her. I fed her 
up and had her in fine order for Dumfries fair ; 
when four or five days before the fair, she was 
seized with an unaccountable disorder in the 
sinews, or somewhere in the bones of the neck ; 
with a weakness or total want of power in her 
fillets, and in short the whole vertebrae of her 
spine seemed to be diseased and unhinged, and 
in eight-and-forty hours, in spite of the two best 
farriers in the country, she died and be d-mned 
to her ! The farriers said that she had been 
quite strained in the fillets beyond cure before you 
had bought her ; and that the poor devil, though 
she might keep a little flesh, had been jaded 
and quite worn out with fatigue and oppression. 
While she was with me, she was under my own 
eye, and I assure you, my much valued friend, 
every thing was done for her that could be 
done ; and the accident has vexed me to the 
heart. In fact I could not pluck up spirits to 
write to you, on account of the unfortunate 
business. 

There is little new in this country. Our the- 
atrical company, of which you must have heard, 
leave us this week. Their merit and character 
are indeed very great, both on the stage and in 



OF ROBKRT B URNS. 



32J) 



private lite; not a worthless creature among 
them ; and their encouragement has heen ac- 
cordingly. Their usual run is from eighteen to 
twenty-five pounds a night : seldom less than 
the one, and the house will hold no more than 
the other. There have been repeated instances 
of sending away six, and eight, and ten pounds 
a night for want of room. A new theatre is to 
be built by subscription ; the first stone is to be 
laid on Friday first to come. Three hundred 
guineas have been raised by thirty subscribers, 
and thirty more might have been got if wanted. 
The manager. Mr. Sutherland, was introduced 
to me by a friend from Ayr; and a worthier or 
cleverer fellow I have rarely met with. Some 
of our clergy have slipt in by stealth now and 
then ; but they have got up a farce of their own. 
You must have heard how the Rev. Mr. Lawson 
of Kirkmahoe, seconded by the Rev. Mr. Kirk- 
patrick of Dunscore, and the rest of that faction, 
have accused in formal process, the unfortunate 
and Rev. Mr. Heron, of Kirkgunzeon, that in or- 
daining Mr. Nielson to the cure of souls in Kirk- 
bean, he, the said Heron, feloniously and trea- 
sonably bound the said Nielson to the confession 
of faith, so far as it was agreeable to reason and the 
word of God ! 

Mrs. B. begs to be remembered most grate- 
fully to you. Little Bobby and Frank are 
charmingly well and healthy. I am jaded to 
death with fatigue. For these two or three 
months, on an average, I have not ridden less 
than two hundred miles per week. I have done 
little in the poetic way. I have given Mr. 
Sutherland two Prologues ; one of which was 
delivered last week. I have likewise strung 
four or five barbarous stanzas, to the tune of 
Chevy Chase, by way of Elegy on your poor un- 
fortunate mare, beginning (the name she got 
here was Peg Nicholson) 

" Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare, 

As ever trod on aim ; 
But now she's floating down the Nith, 
And past the mouth o' Cairn." 

My best compliments to Mrs. Nicol, and little 
Neddy, and all the family ; I hope Ned is a good 
scholar, and will come out to gather nuts and 
apples with me next harvest. 

R. B. 



CLXXXVIII. 

3To |Hr. ©tmamgfjam. 



' Burns looks back with something of regret to the days of rich din- 
ner and flowing wine-cup3 which he experienced in Edinburgh. 
Alexander Cunningham and his unhappy loves are recorded in that 
line song, " Had I a cave on some wild distant shore."] 

Ellisland, \Zth February, 1?90. 
I beg your pardon, my dear and much valued 
friend, for writing to you on this very unfashion- 
able, unsightly sheet — 



" My poverty but not my will con&tnta 



But to make amends, since of modish post I 
have none, except one poor widowed half-sheet 
of gilt, which lies in my drawer among my ple- 
beian fool's-cap pages, like the widow of a man 
of fashion, whom that unpolite scoundrel, Ne- 
cessity, has driven from Burgundy and Pineapple, 
to a dish of Bohea, witli the scandal-bearing 
help-mate of a village-priest; or a glass of 
whisky-toddy, with a ruby-nosed yoke-fellow of 
a foot-padding exciseman — I make a vow to 
enclose this sheet-full of epistolary fragments in 
that my only scrap of gilt paper. 

I am indeed your unworthy debtor for three 
friendly letters. 1 ought to have written to you 
long ere now, but it is a literal fact, I have 
scarcely a spare moment. It is not that 1 will 
not write to you ; Miss Burnet is not more dear 
to her guardian angel, nor his grace the Duke 
of Queensbury to the powers of darkness, than 
my friend Cunningham to me. It is not that I 
cannot write to you ; should you doubt it, take 
the following fragment, which was intended for 
you some time ago, and be convinced that I can 
antithesize sentiment, and circumvolute periods, as 
well as any coiner of phrase in the regions of 
philology. 

December, 1789. 
My dear Cunningham, 

Where are you ? And what are you doing ? 
Can you be that son of levity, who takes up a 
friendship as he takes up a fashion ; or are you, 
like some other of the worthiest fellows in the 
world, the victim of indolence, laden with fetters 
of ever-increasing weight ? 

What strange beings we are ! Since we have 
a portion of conscious existence, equally capable 
of enjoying pleasure, happiness, and rapture, or 
of suffering pain, wretchedness, and misery, it is 
surely worthy of an inquiry, whether there be 
not such a thing as a science of life; whether 
method, economy, and fertility of expedients 
be not applicable to enjoyment, and whether 
there be not a want of dexterity in pleasure, 
which renders our little scantling of happiness 
still less ; and a profuseness, an intoxication in 
bliss, which leads to satiety, disgust, and self- 
abhorrence. There is not a doubt but that 
health, talents, character, decent competency, 
respectable friends, are real substantial blessings ; 
and yet do we not daily see those who enjoy 
many or all of these good things, contrive not- 
withstanding to be as unhappy as others to 
whose lot few of them have fallen ? I believe 
one great source of this mistake or misconduct 
is owing to a certain stimulus, with us called 
ambition, which goads us up the hill of life, 
not as we ascend other eminences, for the laud- 
able curiosity of viewing an extended land- 
scape, but rather for the dishonest pride of 
looking down on others of our fellow-crea- 
tures, seemingly diminutive in humbler sta- 
tions, &c. &c. 



320 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



Sunday, 14/& February, 1790. 
God lielp me ! 1 am now obliged to 

" Join ni^ht to day, and Sunday to the week." 1 

If there be any truth in the orthodox faith of 
these churches, I am d-nmed past redemption, 
and what is worse, d-mned to all eternity. I 
am deeply read in Boston's Four-fold State, 
Marshal on Sanctification, Guthrie's Trial of a 
Saving Interest, &c. ; hut " there is no balm in 
Gilead, there is no physician there," for me ; so 
I shall e'en turn Ar mini an, and trust to "sin- 
cere though, imperfect obedience." 

Tuesday, lQtk. 

Luckily for me, I was prevented from the dis- 
cussion of the knotty point at which I had just 
made a full stop. All my fears and care are of 
this world : if there is another, an honest man 
has nothing to fear from it. I hate a man that 
wishes to be a Deist : but I fear, every fair, un- 
prejudiced enquirer must in some degree be a 
sceptic. It is not that there are any very stag- 
gering arguments against the immortality of 
man ; but like electricity, phlogiston, &c. the 
subject is so involved in darkness, that we want 
data to go upon. One thing frightens me much : 
that we are to live for ever, seems too good neivs 
to be true. That we are to enter into a new 
scene of existence, where, exempt from want 
and pain, we shall enjoy ourselves and our friends 
without satiety or separation —how much should 
I be indebted to any one who could fully assure 
me that this was certain ! 

My time is once more expired. I will write to 
Mr. Cleghorn soon. God bless him and all his 
concerns ! And may all the powers that preside 
over conviviality and friendship, be present with 
all their kindest influence, when the bearer of 
this, Mr. Syme, and you meet ! I wish I could 
also make one. 

Finally, brethren, farewell ! Whatsoever 
things are lovely, whatsoever things are gentle, 
whatsoever things are charitable, whatsoever 
tilings are kind, think on these things, and 
think on 

R. B. 



CLXXXIX. 
Go JHr. ^ctcr ftffl. 



| I'liat Burns turnrd at this time his thoughts on the drama, this 
»r«W to his bookseller for dramatic woiks, as well as his attendance 
11 riie Dumfries theatre, afford proof.] 



Ellisland, 2nd March, 1730. 

At a late meeting of the Monkland Friendly 

Society, it was resolved to augment their library 

i>y the following books, which you are to send us 

as soon as possible : — The Mirror, The Lounger, 



Man of Feeling, Man of the Won::, (these, for 
my own sake, I wish to have by the first carrier), 
Knox's History of the Reformation ; Rae's His- 
tory of the Rebellion in 1715; any good history 
of the rebellion in 1745 ; A Display of the 
Secession Act and Testimony, by Mr. Gibh ; 
Hervey's Meditations ; Beveridge's Thoughts ; 
and another copy of Watson's Body of Di- 
vinity. 

I wrote to Mr. A. Master ton three or four 
months ago, to pay some money he owed me into 
your hands, and lately I wrote to you to the same 
purpose, but I have heard from neither one or 
other of you. 

In addition to the books I commissioned in 
my last, I want very much, An Index to the 
Excise Laws, or an Abridgment of all the Sta- 
tutes now in force, relative to the Excise, by 
Jellinger Symons ; I Avant three copies of this 
book : if it is now to be had, cheap or dear, get 
it for me. An honest country neighbour of 
mine wants too a Family Bible, the larger the 
better; but second-handed, for lie does not choose- 
to give above ten shillings for the book. I want 
likewise for myself, as you can pick them up, 
second-handed or cheap, copies of Otway's Dra- 
matic Works, Ben Jonson's, Dry den's, Con- 
greve's, Wycherley's, Vanbrugh's, Gibber's, or 
any dramatic works of the more modern, Mack- 
lin, Garrick, Foote, Colman, or Sheridan. A 
good copy too of Moliere, in French, I much 
want. Any other good dramatic authors in that 
language I want also ; but comic authors, chiefly, 
though I should wish to have Racine, Comeilie, 
and Voltaire too. I am in no hurry for all, or 
any of these, but if you accidentally meet with 
them very cheap, get them for me. 

And now, to quit the dry walk of business, how 
do you do, my dear friend ? and how is Mrs 
Hill ? I trust, if now and then not so elegantly 
handsome, at least as amiable, and sings as 
divinely as ever. My good wife too has a 
charming " wood-note wild ;" now could we 
four ■ . 

I am out of all patience with this vile world, 
for one thing. Mankind are by nature benevo- 
lent creatures, except in a few scoundrelly in- 
stances. I do not think that avarice of the good 
things we chance to have, is born with us ; but 
we are placed here amid so much nakedness, and 
hunger, and poverty, and want, that we are under 
a cursed necessity of studying selfishness, in order 
that we may exist ! Still there are, in every 
age, a few souls, that all the wants and woes of 
life cannot debase to selfishness, or even to the 
necessary alloy of caution and prudence. If ever 
I am in danger of vanity, it is when I contem- 
plate myself on this side of my disposition and 
character. God knows I am no saint ; I have a 
whole host of follies and sins to answer for ; but 
if I could, and I believe I do it as far as I can, 1 
would wipe away all tears from all eyes. 
Adieu ! 

R. B, 



OF ROBKRT KIRNS. 



327 



cxc. 

2To 0Zw. Duulon. 



[Itii act a little singular that Hums says, in this letter, he hoc 
ust met with the Mirror and Lounger for the fl/at time: It ivill be 
remembered that a few years before a generous article was deo 
by Mackenzie, the editor, to the Poems of Bums, and to ctiis the 
poet often alludes in his correspondence.] 



Ellisland, 10/ A April, 1790. 
I have just now, my ever honoured friend, 
enjoyed a very high luxury, in reading a paper 
of the Lounger. You know my national preju- 
dices. I had often read and admired the Spec- 
tator, Adventurer, Rambler, and World ; but 
still with a certain regret, that they were so 
thoroughly and entirely English. Alas ! have I 
often said to myself, what are all the boasted 
advantages which my country reaps from the 
union, that can counterbalance the annihilation 
of her independence, and even her very name ! 
I often repeat that couplet of my favourite poet, 
Goldsmith — 

" States of native liberty possest, 

Tho' very poor, may yet be very blest." 

Nothing can reconcile me to the common 
terms, " English ambassador, English court," &c. 
And I am out of all patience to see that equivocal 
character, Hastings, impeached by "the Com- 
mons of England." Tell me, my friend, is this 
weak prejudice ? I believe in my conscience 
such ideas as " my country ; her independence ; 
her honour ; the illustrious names that mark the 
history of my native land ;" &c. — I believe 
these, among your men of the ivorld, men who in 
fact guide for the most part and govern our 
world, are looked on as so many modifications 
of wrongheadedness. They know the use of 
bawling out such terms, to rouse or lead the 
rabble ; but for their own private use, with 
almost all the able statesmen that ever existed, or 
now exist, when they talk of right and wrong, 
they only mean proper and improper ; and then- 
measure of conduct is, not what they ought, 
but what they dare. For the truth of this I 
shall not ransack the history of nations, but ap- 
peal to one of the ablest judges of men that ever 
lived — the celebrated Earl of Chesterfield. In 
fact, a man who could thoroughly control his 
vices whenever they interfered with his inte- 
rests, and who could completely put on the ap- 
pearance of every virtue as often as it suited his 
purposes, is, on the Stanhopean plan, the perfect 
man; a man to lead nations. But are great 
abilities, complete without a flaw, and polished 
without a blemish, the standard of human ex- 
cellence ? This is certainly the staunch opinion 
of men of the world ; but I. call on honour, virtue, 
and worth, to give the Stygian doctrine a loud 
negative ! However, this must be allowed, that, 
if you abstract from man the idea of an existence 
beyond the grave, then, the true measure of 
human conduct is, proper and improper : virtue 
and vice, as dispositions of the heart, arc, in that 



case, of scarcely the name import and value to 
the world at large, as harmony and discord in 
the modifications of. sound ; and a delicate sense 
of honour, like a nice ear for music, though it 
may sometimes give the tacy 

unknown to the coarser organs of the herd, yet, 
considering the harsh gratings, and inharmonic 
jars, in this ill-tuned state of being, it is odds 
but the individual would be as happy, and cer- 
tainly would be as much respected by the true 
judges of society as it would then stand, without 
either a good ear or a good heart. 

You must know I have just met with the 
Mirror and Lounger for the first time, and I am 
quite in raptures with them ; I should be glad 
to have your opinion of some of the papers. The 
one ] have just read, Lounger, No. Gi, has i 
me more honest tears than any thing I have read 
of a long time. Mackenzie has been called the 
Addison of the Scots, and in my opinion, Addi- 
son would not be hurt at the comparison. If he 
has not Addison's exquisite humour, he as cer- 
tainly outdoes him in the tender and the pa- 
thetic. His Man of Feeling (but I am not 
counsel learned in the laws of criticism) I esti- 
mate as the first performance in its kind I ever 
saw. From what book, moral or even pious, 
will the susceptible young mind receive impres- 
sions more congenial to humanity and kindness, 
generosity and benevolence; in short, more of 
all that ennobles the soul to herself, or endears 
her to others — than from the simple affecting 
tale of poor Harley. 

Still, with all my admiration of Mackenzie's 
writings, I do not know if they are the fittest 
reading for a young man who is about to set out, 
as the phrase is, to make his way into life. Do 
not you think, Madam, that among the few fa- 
voured of heaven in the structure of their minds:, 
(for such there certainly are) there may be a 
purity, a tenderness, a dignity, an elegance of 
soul, which are of no use, nay, in some degree, 
absolutely disqualifying for the truly importan t 
business of making a man's way into life ? If 1 
am not much mistaken, my gallant young friend, 
A * * * * * * } is very much under these disquali- 
fications ; and for the young females of a family 
I could mention, well may they excite parental 
solicitude, for I, a common acquaintance, or as 
my vanity will have it, an humble friend, have 
often trembled for a turn of mind which may 
render them eminently happy — or peculiarly 
miserable ! 

I have been manufacturing some verses lately ; 
but when I have got the most hurried season of 
excise business over, I hope to have more leisure 
to transcribe any thing that may show how much 
I have the honour to be, Madam, 
Yours, &e. 

B.B. 



328 



GKNERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



CXCL 
Zo Collector J&tttfidl. 



[Collector Mitchell was a kind and considerate gentleman : to his 
grandson, Mr. John Campbell, surgeon, in Aberdeen, I owe this 
characteristic letter. | 

Ellisland, 1790. 
Sib, 

I shall not fail to wait on Captain Riddel to- 
night — I wish and pray that the goddess of jus- 
tice herself would appear to-morrow among our 
hon. gentlemen, merely to give them a word in 
their ear that mercy to the thief is injustice to 
the honest man. For my part I have galloped 
over my ten parishes these four days, until this 
moment that I am just alighted, or rather, that 
my poor jackass-skeleton of a horse has let me 
down ; for the miserable devil has been on his 
knees half a score of times within the last twenty 
miles, telling me in his own way, ' Behold, am 
not I thy faithful jade of a horse, on which thou 
hast ridden these many years !' 

In short, Sir, I have broke my horse's wind, 
and almost broke my own neck, besides some 
injuries in a part that shall be nameless, owing 
to a hard-hearted stone for a saddle. I find that 
every offender has so many great men to espouse 
his cause, that I shall not be surprised if I am 
not committed to the strong hold of the law to- 
morrow for insolence to the dear friends of the 
gentlemen of the country. 

I have the honour to be, Sir, 

Your obliged and obedient humble 
R. B. 



CXC1I. 
2To 39r. Jftocw. 



[The sonnets alluded to by Burns were those of Charlotte Smith : 
the poet's copy is now before me, with a few marks of his pen on the 
margins.] 

Dumfries, Excise-Office, \4th July, 1790. 

Sir, 
Coming into town this morning, to attend my 
duty in this office, it being collection -day, I met 
with a gentleman who tells me he is on his way 
to London ; so I take the opportunity of writing 
to you, as franking is at present under a tempo- 
rary death. I shall have some snatches of lei- 
sure through the day, amid our horrid business 
and bustle, and I shall improve them as well as 
I can ; but let my letter be as stupid as * * * * 
* * * * % as miscellaneous as a newspaper, as 
short as a hungry grace-before-meat, or as long 
as a law-paper in the Douglas cause ; as ill-spelt 
as country John's billet-doux, or as unsightly a 
scrawl as Betty Byre-Mucker's answer to it; I 
hope, considering circumstances, you will for- 



give it ; and as it will put you to no expense of: 
postage, I shall have the less reflection about it. 

I am sadly ungrateful in not returning you 
my thanks for your most valuable present, Ze- 
luco. In fact, you are in some degree blameable 
for my neglect. You were pleased to express a 
wish for my opinion of the work, which so flat- 
tered me, that nothing less would serve my 
overweening fancy, than a formal criticism on 
the book. In fact, I have gravely planned a 
comparative view of you, Fielding, Richardson, 
and Smollett, in your different qualities and 
merits as novel-writers. This, I own, betrays 
my ridiculous vanity, and I may probably never 
bring the business to bear ; and I am fond of the 
spirit young Elihu shows in the book of Job — 
"And I said, I will also declare my opinion !" 
I have quite disfigured my copy of the book 
with my annotations. I never take it up with- 
out at the same time taking my pencil, and 
marking with asterisms, parentheses, &c. wher- 
ever I meet with an original thought, a nervous 
remark on life and manners, a remarkable well- 
turned period, or a character sketched with un- 
common precision. 

Though I should hardly think of fairly writing 
out my "Comparative View," I shall certainly 
trouble you with my remarks, such as they are. 

I have just received from my gentleman that 
horrid summons in the book of Revelations — 
"That time shall be no more !" 

The little collection of sonnets have some 
charming poetry in them. If indeed I am in- 
debted to the fair author for the book, and not, 
as I rather suspect, to a celebrated author of the 
other sex, I should certainly have written to the 
lady, with my grateful acknowledgments, and 
my own ideas of the comparative excellence of 
her pieces. I would do this last, not from any 
vanity of thinking that my remarks could be of 
much consequence to Mrs. Smith, but merely 
from my own feelings as an author, doing as I 
would be done by. 

R. B. 



CXCIII. 
^"o 0Lx. Jttuvtioci), 

TEACHER OF FRENCH, LONDON. 



I The a. 
.vntten.J 



of himself, promised to Murdoch by Bur 



Ellisland, July 16, 1700. 
My dear Sir, 
I received a letter from you a long time ago, 
but unfortunately, as it was in the time of my 
peregrinations and joumeyings through Scot- 
land, I mislaid or lost it, and by consequence 
your direction along with it. Luckily my good 
star brought me acquainted with Mr Kennedy, 






OF KOHKKT UUltNS. 



32<J 



wno, 1 understand, is an acquaintance of yours : 
and by his means and mediation I hope to re- 
place that link which my unfortunate negligence 
had so unluckily broke in the chain of our cor- 
respondence. I was the more vexed at the vile 
accident, as my brother William, a journeyman 
saddler, has been for some time in London ; and 
wished above all things for your direction, that 
he might have paid his respects to his father's 
friend. 

His last address he sent me was, " Wm. Burns, 
at Mr. Barber's, saddler, No, 181, Strand." I 
writ him by Mr. Kennedy, but neglected to ask 
him for your address ; so, if you find a spare 
half-minute, please let my brother know by a 
card where and when he will find you, and the 
poor fellow will joyfully wait on you, as one of 
the few surviving friends of the man whose 
name and Christian name too, he has the honour 
to bear. 

The next letter I write you shall be a long 
one, I have much to tell you of " hair-breadth 
'scapes in th' imminent deadly breach," with 
all the eventful history of a life, the early years 
of which owed so much to your kind tutorage ; 
but this at an hour of leisure. My kindest com- 
pliments to Mrs. Murdoch and family. 
I am ever, my dear Sir, 

Your obliged friend, 

R.B. 



CXCIV 



[This hasty note was accompanied by the splendid elegy on Mat- 
thew Henderson, and no one could better feel than M'Murdo, to 
whom it is addressed, the difference between the music of verse and 
the clangour of politics.] 



Sir, 



Ellisland, 2nd August, 1790. 



Now that you are over with the sirens of 
Flattery, the harpies of Corruption, and the 
furies of Ambition, these infernal deities, that 
on all sides, and in all parties, preside over the 
villainous business of politics, permit a rustic 
muse of your acquaintance to do her best to 
soothe you with a song. — 

You knew Henderson — I have not flattered 
Jus memory. 

I have the honour to be, Sir, 

Your obliged humble Servant- 

li. B. 



cxcv. 



f Enquiries have been made in vain after the name of HunM* cU 
levant friend, who had so deeply wounded his feelings. J 



8th August, 1790. 
Dear Madam, 

After a long day's toil, plague, and care, I 
sit down to write to you. Ask me not why I 
have delayed it so long ? It was owing to hurry, 
indolence, and fifty other things ; in short to 
any tiling — but forgetfulness of la plus aimable 
de son sexe. By the bye, you are indebted your 
best courtesy to me for this last compliment ; as 
I pay it from my sincere conviction of its truth 
— a quality rather rare in compliments of these 
grinning, bowing, scraping times. 

"Well I hope writing to you will ease a little 
my troubled soul. Sorely has it been bruised 
to-day ! A ci-devant friend of mine, and an in- 
timate acquaintance of yours, has given my 
feelings a wound that I perceive will gangrene 
dangerously ere it cure. He has wounded my 
pride ! 

R. B. 



CXCVI. 



[" The strain of invective," says the judicious Currie, of this letter, 
" goes on some time longer in the style in which our bard was too 
apt to indulge, and of which the reader has already seen so much."] 



Ellisland, 8th August, 1790. 

Forgive me, my once dear, and ever dear 
friend, my seeming negligence. You cannot sit 
down and fancy the busy life I lead. 

I laid down my goose-feather to beat my 
brains for an apt simile, and had some thoughts 
of a country grannum at a family christening ; 
a bride on the market-day before her marriage ; 
or a tavern-keeper at an election-dinner; but 
the resemblance that hits my fancy best is, that 
blackguard miscreant, Satan, who roams about 
like a roaring lion, seeking, searching whom he 
may devour. However, tossed about as I am, if 
I choose (and who would not choose) to bind 
down with the crampets of attention the brazen 
foundation of integrity, I may rear up the super- 
structure of Independence, and from its darinar 
turrets, bid defiance to the storms of fate. And 
is not this a " consummation devoutly to be 
wished ?" 

"Thy spirit, Independence, let me share; 
Lord of the lion-heart, and et^le-eye I 
Thy steps I follow with my bosom bare, 
Nor heed the storm that howls along th * sky J" 

Are not these noble versos ? They are tlie 
introduction of Smollett's Ode to Independences 



330 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



if you have not soon the poem, I will send it to 
vou . — How wretched is the man that hangs on 
by the favours of the great ! To shrink from 
every dignity of man, at the approach of a lordly 
piece of self-consequence, who amid all his tinsel 
glitter, and stately hauteur, is hut a creature 
formed as thou art — and perhaps not so well 
formed as thou art — came into the world a puling 
infant as thou didst, and must go out of it, as all 
men must, a naked coi'se. 

R. n. 



CXCVlT. 
fTo 3Br. &ttf) ergon. 



[The gentleman to whom this imperfect note is &.ldrtssc>i .vas 
Dr. James Anderson, a well-known agricultural and miscuKaneous 
writer, and the editor of a weekly miscellany called the Bee. J 

Sir, 
I am much indebted to my worthy friend, Dr. 
Blacklock, for introducing me to a gentleman of 
Dr. Anderson's celebrity; but when you do me 
the honour to ask my assistance in your proposed 
publication, alas, Sir ! you might as well think 
to cheapen a little honesty at the sign of an ad- 
vocate's wig, or humility under the Geneva 
band. 1 am a miserable hurried devil, worn to 
the marrow in the friction of holding the noses 
of the poor publicans to the grindstone of the 
excise ! and, like Milton's Satan, for private 
reasons, am forced 

•♦To do what yet though damn'd I would abhor." 
— and, except a couplet or two of honest exe- 
cration * * * 

R. R. 



CXCVIIL 
€o a&tlltam ©gtler, ©sq. 

OF WOODHOUSELEE. 



[William Tytler was the " revered defender of the beauteous 
Stuart"— a man of genius and a gentleman.] 



Sir, 



Lawn Market, August, 1790. 



Enclosed I have sent you a sample of the 
old pieces that are still to be found among our 
peasantry in the west. I had once a great many 
of these fragments, and some of these here en- 
tire ; but as I had no idea then that any body 
cared for them, I have forgotten them. I inva- 
riably hold it sacrilege to add anything of my 
own to help out with the shattered wrecks of 
these venerable old compositions ; but they have 
many, various readings. If you have not seen 
these before, I know they will flatter your true 
old-style Caledonian feelings ; at any rate I am 
truly happy to have an opportunity of assuring 
you how sincerely I am, revered Sir, 

Your gratefully indebted humble Servant, 
R. B. 



CXCIX. 

©rawfovti ^att, IHsq 



EDINBURGH. 



| Margaret Chalmers had now, it appears by this better, become Mrs. 
Lewis Hay : her friend, Charlotte Hamilton, had been for some tun* 
Mrs. Adair, of Scarborough : Miss Nimmo was the lady who intro- 
duced Burns to the far-:amed Clarinda.] 



Ellisland, Ibth October, 1790. 
Dear Sir, 

Allow me to introduce to your acquaintance 
the bearer, Mr. Win. Duncan, a friend of mine, 
whom I have long known and long loved. His 
father, whose only son he is, has a decent little 
property in Ayrshire, and has bred the young 
man to the law, in which department he comes 
up an adventurer to your good town. I shall 
give you my friend's character in two words : as 
to his head, he has talents enough, and more 
than enough for common life ; as to his heart, 
when nature had kneaded the kindly clay that 
composes it, she said, "I can no more." 

You, my good Sir, were born under kinder 
stars ; but your fraternal sympathy, I well know, 
can enter into the feelings of the young man, 
who goes into life with the laudable ambition to 
do something, and to be something among his 
fellow-ci matures ; but whom the consciousness of 
friendless obscurity presses to the earth, and 
wounds to the soul ! 

Even the fairest of his virtues are against him. 
That independent spirit, and that ingenuous 
modesty, qualities inseparable from a noble 
mind, are, with the million, circumstances not a 
little disqualifying. What pleasure is in the 
power of the fortunate and the happy, by their 
notice and patronage, to brighten the counte- 
nance and glad the heart of such depressed 
youth ! I am not so angry with mankind for 
their deaf economy of the purse : — the goods of 
this world cannot be divided without being les- 
sened — but why be a niggard of that which 
bestows bliss on a fellow-creature, yet takes no- 
thing from our own means of enjoyment ? We 
wrap ourselves up in the cloak of our own better 
fortune, and turn away our eyes, lest the wants 
and woes of our brother-mortals should disturb 
the selfish apathy of our souls ! 

I am the worst hand in the world at asking a 
favour. That indirect address, that insinuating 
implication, which, without any positive request, 
plainly expresses your wish, is a talent not to be 
acquired at a plough-tail. Tell me then, for you 
can, in what periphrasis of language, in what 
circumvolution of phrase, I shall envelope, yet 
not conceal this plain story. — " My dear Mr. 
Tait, my friend Mr. Duncan, whom I have the - 
pleasure of introducing to you, is a young lad of 
your own profession, and a* gentleman of much 
modesty, and great worth. Perhaps it may be 
in your power to assist him in the, to him, im- 
portant consideration of getting a place ; but a< 
all events, your notice and acquaintance will 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



331 



be a very great acquisition to him ; and I dare 
pledge myself that he will never disgrace your 
favour." 

You may possibly be surprised, Sir, at such a 
letter from me ; 'tis, I own, in the usual way of 
calculating these matters, more than our ac- 
quaintance entitles me to; but my answer is 
short: — Of all the men at your time of life, whom 
I knew in Edinburgh, you are the most acces- 
sible on the side on which I have assailed you. 
You are very much altered indeed from what 
vou were when I knew you, if generosity point 
the path you will not tread, or humanity call to 
you in vain. 

As to myself, a being to whose interest I be- 
lieve you are still a well-wisher ; I am here, 
breathing at all times, thinking sometimes, and 
rhyming now and then. Every situation has its 
share of the cares and pains of life, and my situ- 
ation I am persuaded has a full ordinary allow- 
ance of its pleasures and enjoyments. 

My best compliments to your father and Miss 
Tait. If you have an opportunity, please re- 
member me in the solemn league and covenant 
of friendship to Mrs. Lewis Hay. I am a wretch 
for not writing her ; but I am so hackneyed with 
self-accusation in that way, that my conscience 
lies in my "bosom with scarce the sensibility of 
an oyster in its shell. Where is Lady M'Kenzie ? 
wherever she is, God bless her ! I likewise beg 
leave to trouble you with compliments to Mr. 
Wm. Hamilton; Mrs. Hamilton and family; 
and Mrs. Chalmers, when you are in that coun- 
try. Should you meet with Miss Nimmo, please 
remember me kindly to her. 

31. B. 



cc. 



[Tins Uttqr contained the Kirk's Alarm, a satire written to help 
the cause of Dr. AI'Gill, who recanted his heresy rather than be re- 
moved from his kirk.] 

Ellisland, 1790. 
Dear. Sir, 
Whether in the way of my trade I can be 
of any service to the Rev. Doctor, is I fear very 
doubtful. Ajax's shield consisted, I think, of 
seven bull-hides and a plate of brass, which al- 
together set Hector's utmost force at defiance. 
Alas ! I am not a Hector, and the worthy Doc- 
tor's foes are as securely armed as Ajax was. 
Ignorance, superstition, bigotry, stupidity, ma- 
levolence, self-conceit, envy — all strongly bound 
in a massy frame of brazen impudence. Good 
God, Sir ! to such a shield, humour is the peck 
of a sparrow, and satire the pop-gun of a school- 
boy. Creation-disgracing scelerats such as they, 
God only can mend, and the devil only can 
punish. In the comprehending way of Caligula, 
T wish they all had but one neck. I feel impo- 



tent a,i a child to the ardour of my wishes ! 
for a withering curse to blast the germins of theii 
wicked machinations. O for a poisonous tor- 
nado, winged from the torrid zone of Tartarus, 
to sweep the spreading crop of their villanous 
contrivances to the lowest hell ! 

It. 1). 



CCI. 



[The poet wrote out several copies of Tarn o' Shanter and sen! 
ihem to his friends, requesting their criticisms: he wrote few poeme 

io universally applauded.] 



Ellisland, November, 1 790. 

" As cold waters to a thirsty soul, so is good 
news from a far country." 

Fate has long owed me a letter of good new* 
from you, in return for the many tidings of sor- 
row which I have received. In this instance I 
most cordially obey the apostle — " Rejoice with 
them that do rejoice" — for me, to sing for joy, is 
no new thing; but to preach for joy, as I have 
done in the commencement of this epistle, is a 
pitch of extravagant rapture to which I never 
rose before. 

I read your letter — I literally jumped for joy — 
How could such a mercurial creature as a poet 
lumpishly keep his seat on the receipt of the 
best news from his best friend. I seized my 
g. It-headed Wangee rod, an instrument indis- 
pensably necessary in my left hand, in the mo- 
ment of inspiration and rapture ; and stride, 
stride — quick and quicker — out skipt I among 
the broomy blinks of Nith to muse over my joy by 
retail. To keep within the bounds of prose was 
impossible. Mrs. Little's is a more elegant, but 
not a more sincere compliment to the sweet little 
fellow, than I, extempore almost, poured out to 
him in the following verses : — 

Sweet flow'ret, pledge o' meikle love 

And ward o' mony a prayer, 
What heart o' stane wad thou na move 

Sae helpless, sweet, an' fair. 
November hirples o'er the lea 

Chili on thy lovely form ; 
But gane, alas ! the shelt'ring tree 

Should shield thee frae the storm. 

I am much flattered by your approbation of 
my Tarn o' Shanter, which you express in your 
former letter ; though, by the bye, you load me 
in that said letter with accusations heavy and 
many ; to all which I plead, not guilty ! Your 
book is, I hear, on the road to reach me. As to 
printing of poetry, when you prepare it for the 
press, you have only to spell it right, and place 
the capital letters properly : as to the punctua- 
tion, the printers do that themselves. 

I have a copy of Tarn o' Sfamtnr re.-iev fosend 



332 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



you by the first opportunity : it is too heavy to 
send by post. 

I heard of Mr. Corbet lately. He, in conse- 
quence of your recommendation, is most zealous 
to serve me. Please favour me soon with an 
account of your good folks ; if Mrs. H. is re- 
covering, and the young gentleman doing well. 

R. B. 



ecu. 



2Fq &au£ m* ffl. Constable. 



[The present alluded to was a gold snuff-box, with a portrait of 
Queen Mary on the lid.] 



Ellisland, Wth January, 1791. 
My Lady, 

Nothing less than the unlucky accident of 
having lately broken my right arm, could have 
prevented me, the moment I received your lady- 
ship's elegant present by Mrs. Miller, from re- 
turning you my warmest and most grateful 
acknowledgments. I assure your ladyship, I 
shall set it apart — the symbols of religion shall 
only be more sacred. In the moment of poetic 
composition, the box shall be my inspiring 
genius. When I would breathe the compre- 
hensive wish of benevolence for the happiness 
of others, I shall recollect your ladyship ; when 
1 would interest my fancy in the distresses in- 
cident to humanity, I shall remember the unfor- 
tunate Mary. 

R.B. 



CCIII 
^o S&iUiam Hunuar, OT. j&. 



[This letter was in answer to one from Dunbar, in which the witty 
colonel of the Crochallun Fencibles supposed the poet had been trans- 
lated to Elysiiiin to sing to the immortals, as his voice had not been 
hea-d of late on earth. J 



Ellisland, I'Jth January, 1791. 

I am not gone to Elysium, most noble colonel, 
but am still here in this sublunary world, serv- 
ing my God, by propagating his image, and 
honouring my king by begetting him loyal sub- 
jects. 

Many happy returns of the season await my 
friend. May the thorns of care never beset his 
path ! May peace be an inmate of his bosom, 
and rapture a frequent visitor of his soul ! May 
the blood-hounds of misfortune never track his 
steps, nor the screech-owl of sorrow alarm his 
dwelling ! May enjoyment tell thy hours, and 
pleasure number thy days, thou friend of the 
DRi'd ! " Blessed be he that blesseth thee, and 
cursed be he that curseth thee ! ! ! " 



As a further proof that I am still in the land 
of existence, I send you a poem, the latest I have 
composed. I have a particular reason for wish- 
ing you only to show it to select friends, should 
you think it worthy a friend's perusal ; but if, 
at your first leisure hour, you will favour me 
with your opinion of, and strictures on the per- 
formance, it will be an additional obligation on, 
dear Sir, your deeply indebted humble servant, 

R. B. 



CCIV. 
Z* JJfcr. ^eter fflill 



[The poet's eloquent apostrophe to poverty has no li*t.e feeling (rt 
it: he beheld the money which his poems brought melt silectl? 
away, and he looked to the future with more fear than hope. | 



Ellisland, I'Jth January, 1791. 
Take these two guineas, and place them over 
against that d-mned account of yours ! which 
has gagged my mouth these five or six months ! 
I can as little write good things as apologies to 
the man I owe money to. O the supreme curse 
of making three guineas do the business of five ! 
Not all the labours of Hercules; not all the 
Hebrews' three centuries of Egyptian bondage, 
were such an insuperable business, such an in- 
fernal task ! ! Poverty ! thou half-sister of 
death, thou cousin -german of hell : where shall 
I find force of execration equal to the amplitude 
of thy demerits ? Oppressed by thee, the vene- 
rable ancient, grown hoary in the practice of 
every virtue, laden with years and wretchedness, 
implores a little — little aid to support his exist- 
ence, from a stony-hearted son of Mammon, 
whose sun of prosperity never knew a cloud; 
and is by him denied and insulted. Oppressed 
by thee, the man of sentiment, whose heart 
glows with independence, and melts with sensi- 
bility, inly pines under the neglect, or writhes 
in bitterness of soul, under the contumely of 
arrogant, unfeeling wealth. Oppressed by thee, 
the son of genius, whose ill-starred ambition 
plants him at the tables of the fashionable and 
polite, must see in suffering silence, his remark 
neglected, and his person despised, while shallow 
greatness in his idiot attempts at wit, shall meet 
with countenance and applause. Nor is it only 
the family of worth that have reason to complain 
of thee : the children of folly and vice, though 
in common with thee the offspring of evil, smart 
equally under thy rod. Owing to thee, the man 
of unfortunate disposition and neglected educa- 
tion, is condemned as a fool for his dissipation, 
despised and shunned as a needy wretch, when 
his follies as usual bring him to want ; and when 
his unprincipled necessities drive him to dis- 
honest practices, he is abhorred as a miscreant, 
and perishes by the justice of his country But 
far otherwise is the lot of the man of family and 
fortune. His early folliep and extravagance, aro 



OF ROHFRT BURNS. 



803 



spirit ami fire. ; his consequent wants are the 
embarrassments of an honest fellow ; and when. 
to remedy the matter, he has gained a legal 
commission to plunder distant provinces, or 
massacre peaceful nations, he returns, perhaps, 
laden with the spoils of rapine and murder; 
lives wicked and respected, and dies a scoundrel 
and a lord. — Nay, worst of all, alas for helpless 
woman ! the needy prostitute, who has shivered 
at the corner of the street, waiting to earn the 
wages of casual prostitution, is left neglected 
and insulted, ridden down by the chariot wheels 
of the coroneted Rip, hurrying on to the guilty 
assignation ; she who without the same neces- 
sities to plead, riots nightly in the same guilty 
trade. 

"Well ! divines may say of it what they please; 
but execration is to the mind what phlebot- 
omy is to the body : the vital sluices of both 
are wonderfully relieved by their respective 
evacuations. 

R. B. 



ccv. 

®q 0Lv. ©unnfngham. 



To Alexander Cunningham the poet generally communicated his 
Cuvourite compositions.} 

Ellhland, 23rd January, 1791. 

Many happy returns of the season to you, my 
dear friend ! As many of the good things of 
this life, as is consistent with the usual mixture 
of good and evil in the cup of being ! 

I have just finished a poem (Tam o' Shanter) 
which you will receive inclosed. It is my first 
essay in the way of tales. 

I have these several months been hammering 
at an elegy on the amiable and accomplished 
Miss Burnet. I have got, and can get, no far- 
ther than the following fragment, on which please 
give me your strictures. In all kinds of poetic 
composition, I set great store by your opinion ; 
but in sentimental verses, in the poetry of the 
heart, no Roman Catholic ever set more value 
on the infallibility of the Holy Father than I do 
on yours. 

I mean the introductory couplets as text verses. 

ELEGY 

ON THE LATE MISS BURNET, OF MONBODDO. 

Life ne'er exulted in so rich a prize, 
As Burnet lovely from her native skies ; 
Nor envious death so triumph'd in a blow, 
As that which laid th' accomplished Burnet low. 



Let me hear from you soon. Adieu ! 



CCVI. 

tHo &. Jp. ftnHer, £sq. 



[" I have neldom in my life," says Lord Woodhousehe, " tasted i 
higher enjoyment from any work of genius than 1 received from 
Tam-o'-Slianter."J 



Sm, 



Ellisland, February, 1 79 1 . 



R. B. 



Nothing less than the unfortunate accident 1 
have met with, could have prevented my grate- 
ful acknowledgments for your letter. His own 
favourite poem, and that an essay in the walk of 
the muses entirely new to him, where conse- 
quently his hopes and fears were on the most 
anxious alarm for his success in the attempt ; to 
have that poem so much applauded by one of 
the first judges, was the most delicious vibration 
that ever thrilled along the heart-strings of a 
poor poet. However, Providence, to keep up 
the proper proportion of evil with the good, 
which it seems is necessary in this sublunary 
state, thought proper to check my exultation by 
a very serious misfortune. A day or two after 
I received your letter, my horse came down 
with me and broke my right arm. As this is 
the first service my arm has done me since its 
disaster, I find myself unable to do more than 
just in general terms thank you for this ad- 
ditional instance of your patronage and friend- 
ship. As to the faults you detected in the piece, 
they are truly there : one of them, the hit at the 
lawyer and priest, I shall cut out ; as to the fall- 
ing off in the catastrophe, for the reason you 
justly adduce, it cannot easily be remedied. 
Your approbation, Sir, has given me such addi- 
tional spirits to persevere in this species of poetic 
composition, that I am already revolving two or 
three stories in my fancy. If I can bring these 
floating ideas to bear any kind of embodied 
form, it will give me additional opportunity of 
assuring you how much I have the honour to 
be, &c. 

R.B. 



CCVII. 
^o i&r*. SEunlop. 



| The Elegy on the beautiful Miss Burnet, of Monboddo, was la- 
boured zealously by Burns, but H nevw reaoncd the excellence pf 
some of his other compositions.] 



Ellizland, 1th Feb. 1791. 
When I tell you, Madam, that by a fall, not 
from my horse, but with my horse, I have been 
a cripple some time, and that this is the first 
day my arm and hand have been able to serve 
me in writing; you will allow that it is too 
good an apology for my seemingly ungrateful 
silence. I am now getting better, and am able 
4 a 



334 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



to rhyme a little, which implies some tolerable 
ease ; as I cannot think that the most poetic 
genius is able to compose on the rack. 

I do not remember if ever I inentioned to you 
my having an idea of composing an elegy on the 
late Miss Burnet, of Monboddo. I had the 
honour of being pretty well acquainted with 
her, and have seldom felt so much at the loss of 
an acquaintance, as when I heard that so ami- 
able and accomplished a piece of God's work 
was no more. I have, as yet, gone no farther 
than the following fragment, of which please let 
me have your opinion. You know that elegy is 
a subject so much exhausted, that any new idea 
on the business is not to be expected : 'tis well if 
we can place an old idea in a new light. How 
far I have succeeded as to this last, you will 
judge from what follows. I have proceeded no 
further. 

Your kind letter, with your kind remembrance 
of your godson, came safe. This last, Madam, 
is scarcely what my pride can bear. As to 
the little fellow, he is, partiality apart, the 
finest boy I have for a long time seen. He is 
now seventeen months old, has the small pox 
and measles over, has cut several teeth, and 
never had a grain of doctor's drugs in his 
bowels. 

I am truly happy to hear that the tf little 
floweret" is blooming so fresh and fair, and that 
the " mother plant" is rather recovering her 
drooping head. Soon and well may her " cruel 
wounds" be healed. I have written thus fa.r 
with a good deal of difficulty. When I get a 
little abler you shall hear farther from, 
Madam, yours, 

R.B. 



CCVIII. 



[Alison was much grattfied, it is said, with this recognition of the 
principles laid down in his ingenious and popular work.] 



Ellisland, near Dumfries, 1 4th Feb. 1791. 
Sir, 
You must by this time have set me down as 
one of the most ungrateful of men. You did 
me the honour to present me with a book, 
which does honour to science and the intellec- 
tual powers of man, and I have not even so 
much as acknowledged the receipt of it. The 
fact is, you yourself are to blame for it. Flat- 
tered as I was by your telling me that you 
wished to have my opinion of the work, the 
old spiritual enemy of mankind, who knows 
well that vanity is one of the sins that most 
easily beset me, put it into my head to ponder 
over the performance with the look-out of a 
critic, and to draw up forsooth a deep learned 
digest of strictures on a composition, of which, j 



in fact, nntil I read the book, I did not even 
know the first principles. I own, Sir, that 
at first glance, several of your propositions 
startled me as paradoxical. That the martial 
clangor of a trumpet had something in it vastly 
more grand, heroic, and sublime, than the twin- 
gle t wangle of a jew's-harp : that the delicate 
flexture of a rose-twig, when the half-blown 
flower is heavy with the tears of the dawn, was 
infinitely more beautiful and elegant than the 
upright stub of a burdock ; and that from some- 
thing innate and independent of all associations 
of ideas ; — these I had set down as irrefragable, 
orthodox truths, until perusing your book shook 
my faith. — In short, Sir, except Euclid's Ele- 
ments of Geometry, which I made a shift to un- 
ravel by my father's fire-side, in the winter 
evening of the first season I held the plough, I 
never read a book which gave me such a quan- 
tum of information, and added so much to my 
stock of ideas, as your " Essays on the Prin- 
ciples of Taste." One thing, Sir, you must for- 
give my mentioning as an uncommon merit in 
the work, I mean the language. To clothe 
abstract philosophy in elegance of style, sounds 
something like a contradiction in terms; but 
you have convinced me that they are quite com- 
patible. 

I enclose you some poetic bagatelles of my 
late composition. The one in print 1 is my first 
essay in the way of telling a tale. 

I am Sir, &c. 

R.B. 



CCIX. 



[Moore admired but moderately the beautiful ballad on Queen 
Mary, and the Elegy on Captain Matthew Henderson : Tarn o' 
Shanter he thought full of poetical beauties.— He again regrets that 
he writes in the language of Scotland.] 



Ellisland, 28th February, 1791. 

I do not know, Sir, whether you are a sub- 
scriber to Grose's Antiquities of Scotland. If you 
are, the enclosed poem will not be altogether 
new to you. Captain Grose did me the favour 
to send me a dozen copies of the proof sheet, 
of which this is one. Should you have read the 
piece before, still this will answer the principal 
end I have in view : it will give me another 
opportunity of thanking you for all your good- 
ness to. the rustic bard ; and also of showing you, 
that the abilities you have been pleased to com- 
mend and patronize are still employed in the 
way you wish. 

The Elegy on Captain Henderson, is a tribute 
to the memory of a man I loved much. Poets 



OF ROBERT IHJICNS. 



335 



have in this the same advantage as Roman Ca- 
tholics; they can be of service to their friends 
after they have passed that bourne where all 
other kindness ceases to be of avail. Whether 
after all, either the one or the other be of any 
real service to the dead, is, I fear, very proble- 
matical ; but I am sure they are highly gratifying 
to the living : and as a very orthodox text, I for- 
get where in scripture, says, " whatsoever is not 
of faith is sin ;" so say I, whatsoever is not detri- 
mental to society, and is of positive enjoyment, 
is of God, the giver of all good things, and ought 
to be received and enjoyed by his creatures 
with thankful delight. As almost all my reli- 
gious tenets originate from my heart, I am 
wonderfully pleased with the idea, that I can 
still keep up a tender intercourse with the 
dearly beloved friend, or still more dearly be- 
loved mistress, who is gone to the world of 
spirits. 

The ballad on Queen Mary was begun while I 
was busy with Percy's Reliquss of English Poetry. 
By the way, how much is every honest heart, 
which has a tincture of Caledonian prejudice, 
obliged to you for your glorious story of Bu- 
chanan and Targe ! 'Twas an unequivocal proof 
of your loyal gallantry of soul, giving Targe the 
victory. I should have been mortified to the 
ground if you had not. 

I have just read over, once more of many 
times, your Zeluco. I marked with my pencil, 
as I went along, every passage that pleased me 
particularly above the rest ; and one, or two 
I think, which with humble deference, T am 
disposed to think unequal to the merits of 
the book. I have sometimes thought to tran- 
scribe these marked passages, or at least so 
much of them as to point where they are, and 
send them to you. Original strokes that 
strongly depict the human heart, is your and 
Fielding's province beyond any other novelist I 
have ever perused. Richardson indeed might 
perhaps be excepted; but unhappily, dramatis 
personcB are beings of another world ; and how- 
ever they may captivate the unexperienced, ro- 
mantic fancy of a boy or a girl, they will ever, 
in proportion as we have made human nature 
our study, dissatisfy our riper years. 

As to my private concerns, I am going on, a 
mighty tax-gatherer before the Lord, and have 
lately had the interest to get myself ranked 
on the list of excise as a supervisor. I am not 
yet employed as such, but in a few years I shall 
fall into the file of supervivorship by seniority. 
I have had an immense loss in the death of the 
Earl of Glencairn ; the patron from whom all 
my fame and fortune took its rise. Independent 
of my grateful attachment to him, which was 
indeed so strong that it pervaded my very soul, 
and was entwined with the thread of my exis- 
tence : so soon as the prince's friends had got in, 
(and every dog you know has his day,) my get- 
ting foi'ward in the excise would have been an 
easier business than otherwise it will be. 
Though this was a consummation devoutly to 



l>e wished, yet, thank Heaven, I can live and 
rhyme as I am; and as to my boys, poor little 
fellows ! if I cannot place them on as high an 
elevation in life, as I could wish, I shall, if I am 
favoured so much of the Disposer of events as to 
see that period, fix them on as broad and inde- 
pendent a basis as possible. Among the many 
wise adages which have been treasured up by 
our Scottish ancestors this it one of the best, 
Better be the head o' the commonalty, than the 
tail o' the gentry. 

But I am got on a subject, which however in- 
teresting to me, is of no manner of consequence to 
you ; so I shall give you a short poem on the 
other page, and close this with assuring you how 
sincerely I have the honour to be, 

Yours, &c. 

R.B. 

Written on the blank leaf of a book, which I 
presented to a very young lady, whom I had 
formerly characterized under the denomina- 
tion of The Rose Bud. * * * 



ccx. 

^o 0Lt. ©uuninc$am. 



[Cunningham could tell a merry story, and sing a humorous 
song ; nor was he without a feeling for the deep sensibilities of his 
friend's verse, j 



Eltisland, \2th March, 1761. 
If the foregoing piece be worth your stric- 
tures, let me have them. For my own part, a 
thing that I have just composed always ap- 
pears through a double portion of that partial 
medium in which an author will ever view his 
own works. I believe in general, novelty has 
something in it that inebriates the fancy, and 
not unfrequently dissipates and fumes away like 
other intoxication, and leaves the poor patient, 
as usual, with an aching heart. A striking in- 
stance of this might be adduced, in the revolu- 
tion of many a hymeneal honeymoon. But lest 
I sink into stupid prose, and so sacrilegiously 
intrude on the office of my parish-priest, I shall 
fill up the page in my own way, and give you 
another song of my late composition, which will 
appear perhaps in Johnson's work, as well as the 
former. 

You must know a beautiful Jacobite air, 
There'll never be peace , till Jamie comes hame. 
When political combustion ceases to be the 
object of princes and patriots, it then you know 
becomes the lawful prey of liistorians and poets. 

By yon castle wa' at the close of the day. 

I heard a man sing, tho' his head it was grey ; 

And as he was singing, the tears fast down 

came — 
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. 



336 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



If you like the air, and if the stanzas hit your 
fancy, you cannot imagine, my dear friend, how 
mueh you would oblige me, if by the charms of 
your delightful voice, you would give my honest 
effusion to " the memory of joys that are past," 
to the few friends whom you indulge in that 
pleasure. But I have scribbled on 'till I hear 
the clock has intimated the near approach of 

That hour, o' night's black arch the key-stane. — 

So good night to you ! Sound be your sleep, and 
delectable your dreams ! Apropos, how do you 
like this thought in a ballad, I have just now on 
the tapis ? 

I look to the west when I gae to rest, 
That happy my dreams and my slumbers may 
be; 

Far far in the west is he I lo'e best, 
The lad that is dear to my babie and me ! 

Good night, once more, and God bless you ! 

R.B. 



CCXI 

FACTOR, FINDLAYSTON. 



'Cromek says that Alexander Dalzel introduced the poetry of Burns 
to the notice of the Earl of Glencairn, who carried the Kilmarnock 
edition with him to Edinburgh, and begged that the poet would let 
him know what his views in the world were, that he might further 
them.] 



Ellisland, 19th March, 1791. 
My dear Sir, 

I have taken the liberty to frank this letter 
to you, as it encloses an idle poem of mine, 
which I send you ; and God knows you may 
perhaps pay dear enough for it if you read it 
through. Not that this is my own opinion ; but 
the author by the time he has composed and cor- 
rected his work, has quite pored away all his 
powers of critical discrimination. 

I can easily guess from my own heart, what 
you have felt on a late most melancholy event. 
God knows what I have suffered, at the loss of 
my best friend, my first and dearest patron and 
benefactor ; the man to whom I owe all that I 
am and have ! I am gone into mourning for him, 
and with more sincerity of grief than I fear some 
will, who by nature's ties ought to feel on the 
occasion. 

I will be exceedingly obliged to you, indeed, 
to lot me know the news of the noble family, 
how the poor mother and the two sisters support 
(heir loss. I had a packet of poetic bagatelles 
ready to send to Lady Betty, when I saw the 



fatal tidings in the newspaper. I see by the same 
channel that the honoured remains of my noble 
patron, are designed to be brought to the family 
burial-place. Dare I trouble you to let me know 
privately before the day of interment, that I 
may cross the country, and steal among the crowd, 
to pay a tear to the last sight of my ever revered 
benefactor ? It will oblige me beyond expres- 
sion. 

R.B. 



CCXI1. 

Zts 0lx$. <£raf)am, 

OF FINTKY. 



[Mrs. Graham, of Fintry, felt both as a lady and a Scottish one 
the tender Lament of the fair and unfortunate princess, which this 
letter contained.] 

Ellisland, 1791. 
Madam, 
Whether it is that the story of our Mary, 
Queen of Scots, has a peculiar effect on the 
feelings of a poet, or whether I have, in the in- 
closed ballad, succeeded beyond my usual poetic 
success I know not ; but it has pleased me be- 
yond any effort of my muse for a good while 
past ; on that account I inclose it particularly 
to you. It is true, the purity of my motives 
may be suspected. I am already deeply in- 
debted to Mr. Graham's goodness ; and what, in 
the usual ways of men, is of infinitely greater im- 
portance, Mr. G. can do me service of the ut- 
most importance in time to come. I was born a 
poor dog; and however I may occasionally pick 
a better bone than I used to do, I know I must 
live and die poor : but I will indulge the flatter- 
ing faith that my poetry will considerably out- 
live my poverty ; and without any fustian affec- 
tation of spirit, I can promise and affirm, that it 
must be no ordinary craving of the latter shall 
ever make me do any thing injurious to the honest 
fame of the former. Whatever may be my 
failings, for failings are a part of human nature, 
may they ever be those of a generous heart, and 
an independent mind ! It is no fault of mine 
that I was born to dependence ; nor is it Mr. 
Graham's chiefest praise that he can command 
influence ; but it is his merit to bestow, not 
only with the kindness of a brother, but with 
the politeness of a gentleman ; and I trust it 
shall be mine, to receive with thankfulness, anl 
remember with undiminished gratitude. 

r. a 






of KOBYBT BUUN8. 



337 



ccxm. 

OF FINTItY. 



'The fol owing tettw was written on the blank leaf of a new editon 
if Lis poems, presented by the poet, to one whom he regarded, and 
Justly, as a patroness.] 

It is probable, Madam, that this page may be 
read, when the hand that now writes it shall be 
mouldering in the dust : may it then bear wit- 
ness, that I present you these volumes as a tri- 
bute of gratitude, on my part ardent and sincere, 
as your aud Mr. Gi*aham's goodness to me has 
been generous and noble ! May every child of 
yours, in the hour of need, find such a friend as I 
shall teach every child of mine, that their father 
found in you. 

R R. 



CCXIV. 

Zo tf)c &eb. S. ttafrfc. 



[It was proposed to publish a new edition of the poems of Michael 
Bruce, by subscription, and give the pre fits to his mother, a woman 
eighty years old, and pry r and helpless, and Burns was asked fo» a 
poem to give a new impulse to the publication.] 

EUisland, 1791. 
Reverend Sir., 
Why did you, my dear Sir, write to me in 
such a hesitating style on the business of poor 
Bruce ? Don't I know, and have I not felt, the 
many ills, the peculiar ills that poetic flesh is 
heir to ? You shall have your choice of all the 
unpublished poems I have ; and had your letter 
had my direction so as to have reached me 
sooner, (it only came to my hand this moment,) 
I should have directly put you out of suspense 
on the subject. I only ask, that some pre- 
fatory advertisement in the book, as well as the 
subscription bills, may bear, that the publication 
is solely for the benefit of Bruce's mother. I 
would not put it in the power of ignorance to 
surmise, or malice to insinuate, that I clubbed a 
share in the work from mercenary motives. 
Nor need you give me credit for any remark- 
able generosity in my part of the business. I 
have such a host of peccadilloes, failings, follies, 
and backslidings, (any body but myself might 
perhaps give some of them a worse appellation,) 
that by way of some balance, however trifling, 
in the account, I am fain to do any good that 
occurs in my very limited power to a fellow- 
creature, just for the selfish purpose of clearing 
<t rittle the vista of retrospection. 

R. B. 



ccxv 

^o 0Lx*. Bunlop. 



["Francis Wallace Burns, the godson of Mrs. Dunlcp, to whrtn 
this letter refers, died at the age of fourteen— he was a fine and a pro 
mising youth.] 



EUisland, Ulh April, 1791. 
I am once more able, my honoured friend, to 
return you, with my own hand, thanks for the 
many instances of your friendship, and particu- 
larly for your kind anxiety in this last disaster, 
that my evil genius had in store for me. How- 
ever, life is chequered — joy and sorrow — for on 
Saturday morning last, Mrs. Burns made me a 
present of a fine boy ; rather stouter, but not 
so handsome as your godson was at his time of 
life. Indeed I look on your little namesake to 
be my chefd'oeuvre in that species of manufac- 
ture, as I look on Tarn o'Shanter to be my 
standard performance in the poetical line. 'Tis 
true, both the one and the other discover a spice 
of rouguish waggery, that might perhaps be as 
well spared ; but then they also show, in my 
opinion, a force of genius and a finishing polish, 
that I despair of ever excelling. Mrs. Burns is 
getting stout again, and laid as lustily about her 
to-day at breakfast, as a reaper from the corn- 
ridge. That is the peculiar privilege and bless 
ing of our hale, sprightly damsels, that are bred 
among the hay and heather. We cannot hope foe 
that highly polished mind, that charming deli- 
cacy of soul, which is found among the female 
world in the more elevated stations of life, and 
which is certainly by far the most bewitching 
charm in the famous cestus of Venus. It is in- 
deed such an inestimable treasure, that Avhere 
it can be had in its native heavenly purity, un- 
stained by some one or other of the many shades 
of affectation, and unalloyed by some one or 
other of the many species of caprice, I declare 
to Heaven, I should think it cheaply purchased 
at the expense of every other earthly good ! 
But as this angelic creature is, I am afraid, 
extremely rare in any station and rank of life, 
and totally denied to such a humble one as mine, 
we meaner mortals must put up with the next 
rank of female excellence — as fine a figure and 
face we can produce as any rank of life what- 
ever; rustic, native grace ; unaffected modesty, 
and unsullied purity; nature's mother-wit, and 
the rudiments of taste ; a simplicity of soul, un- 
suspicious of, because unacquainted with, the 
crooked ways of a selfish, interested, disingenu 
ous world ; and the dearest charm of all the rest, 
a yielding sweetness of disposition, and a genei- 
ous warmth of heart, grateful for love on oui 
part, and ardently glowing with a more than 
equal return ; these, with a healthy frame, a 
sound, vigorous constitution, which your higher- 
ranks can scarcely ever hope to enjoy, are the 
charms of lovely woman in m\ humble walk of 
life. 



888 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



This is the greatest effort my broken arm has 
yet made. Do let me hear, by first post, how 
chcr petit Monsieur comes on with his small- 
pox. Stay almighty goodness preserve and re- 
store him ! 

R B. 



CCXVI. 



t£o 



[ThRt his works found their way to the newspapers, need havo oc- 
casioned no surprise : the poet gave copies of his favourite pieces freely 
to his friends, as soon as they were written : who, in their turn, spread 
their fame among their acquaintances.] 

Ellisland, 1791. 
Dear Sir, 
I am exceedingly to blame in not writing yon 
long ago ; but the truth is, that I am the most 
indolent of all human beings; and when I ma- 
triculate in the herald's office, I intend that 
my supporters shall be two sloths, my crest a 
slow-worm, and the motto, " Deil tak the fore- 
most." So much by way of apology for not 
thanking you sooner for your kind execution of 
my commission. 

I would have sent you the poem ; but some- 
how or other it found its way into the public 
papers, where you must have seen it. 
I am ever, dear Sir, 

Yours sincerely, 

It.B. 



jcxvn. 



t£o 



/This si iirular letter was sent by Burns, it is believed, to a critic, 
who had taken him to usk about obscure language, and imperfect 
v laminar. J 

El/island, 1791. 
Thou eunuch of language : thou Englishman, 
who never was south the Tweed: thou servile echo 
of fashionable barbarisms : thou quack, vending 
the nostrums of empirical elocution : thou mar- 
riage-maker between vowels and consonants, on 
the Gretna-green of caprice : thou cobler, botch - 
ing the flimsy socks of bombast oratory : thou 
blacksmith, hammering the rivets of absurdity : 
thou butcher, embruing thy hands in the bowels 
of orthography : thou arch-heretic in pronunci- 
ation : thou pitch-pipe of affected emphasis : 
thou carpenter, mortising the awkward joints of 
jarring sentences: thou squeaking dissonance 
of cadence : thou pimp of gender : thou Lyon 
Herald to silly etymology : thou antipode of 
grammar : thou executioner of construction : 
thou brood of the speech -distracting builders of 



the Tower of Babel : thou lingual confusion 
worse confounded : thou scape-gallows from 
the land of syntax : thou scavenger of mood 
and tense: thou murderous accoucheur of in- 
fant learning: thou ignis fatuus, misleading the 
steps of benighted ignorance: thou pickle-her- 
ring in the puppet-show of nonsense : thou faith- 
ful recorder of barbarous idiom : thou persecutor 
of syllabication : thou baleful meteor, foretelling 
and facilitating the rapid approach of Nox and 
Erebus. 

B.B. 



CCXVIII. 

^"o JMr @utmmgf)am. 



[To Clarke, the Schoolmaster, Burns, it is said, addressed several 
letters, which on his death were put into the fire by his widow, be- 
cause of their license of language.] 

11th June, 1701. 

Let; me interest you, my dear Cunningham, 
in behalf of the gentleman who waits 011 you 
with this. He is a Mr. Clarke, of Moffat, prin- 
cipal schoolmaster there, and is at present suf- 
fering severely under the persecution of one or 
two powerful individuals of his employers. He 
is accused of harshness to boys that were placed 
under his care. God help the teacher, if a man of 
sensibility and genius, and such is my friend 
Clarke, when a booby father presents him with 
his booby son, and insists on lighting up the 
rays of science, in a fellow's head whose skull 
is impervious and inaccessible by any other way 
than a positive fracture with a cudgel : a fellow 
whom in fact it savours of impiety to attempt 
making a scholar of, as he has been marked a 
blockhead in the book of fate, at the almighty 
fiat of his Creator. 

The patrons of Moffat-schocl are, the minis- 
ters, magistrates, and town-council of Edinburgh, 
and as the business comes now before them, let 
me beg my dearest friend to do every thing in his 
power to serve the interests of a man of genius 
and worth, and a man whom I particularly re- 
spect and esteem. You know some good fellows 
among the magistracy and council, but particu- 
Jarly you have much to say with a reverend 
gentleman to whom you have the honour of 
being very nearly related, and whom this coun- 
try and age have had the honour to produce. 
I need not name the historian of Charles V. 
I tell him through the medium of his nephew's 
influence, that Mr. Clarke is a gentleman who 
will not disgrace even his patronage. I know 
the merits of the cause thoroughly, and say it, 
that my friend is falling a sacrifice to prejudiced 
ignorance, 

God help the children of dependence ! Hated 
and persecuted by their enemies, and too oft??!. 



Or" KOBKKT BUKNS. 



339 



alas ! almost unexceptionably, received by their 
friends with disrespect and reproach, under the 
thin disguise of cold civility and humiliating 
advice. O ! to be a sturdy savage, stalking in 
the pride of his independence, amid the solitary 
wilds of his deserts ; rather than in civilized 
life, helplessly to tremble for a subsistence, 
precarious as the caprice of a fellow-creature ! 
Every man has his virtues, and no man is with- 
out his failings ; and curse on that privileged 
plain-dealing of friendship, which, in the hour of 
my calamity, cannot reach forth the helping 
hand without at the same time pointing out 
those failings, and apportioning them their 
share in procuring my present distress. My 
friends, for such the world calls ye, and such ye 
think yourselves to be, pass by my virtues if you 
please, but do, also, spare my follies: the first 
will witness in my breast for themselves, and the 
last will give pain enough to the ingenuous mind 
without you. And since deviating more or less 
from the paths of propriety and rectitude, must 
be incident to human nature, do thou, Fortune, 
put it in my power, always from myself, and of 
myself, to bear the consequence of those errors ! 
I do not want to be independent that I may 
sin, but I want to be independent in my sinning. 
To return in this rambling letter to the sub- 
ject I set out with, let me recommend my friend, 
Mr. Clarke, to your acquaintance and good of- 
fices ; his worth entitles him to the one, and his 
gratitude will merit the other. I long much to 
hear from you. 

Adieu ! 

R.B. 



CCXIX. 
2T o tf)e CParl of I$uct)an. 



[.LrOTu ttuchan printed this \et£er in his Essay on the Life of 
Thomson, in 1792. His lordship invited Burns to leave his corn 
un reaped, walk from Ellisland to Dryburgh, and help him to 
crown Thomson's bust with bays, on Ednam Hill, on the 22nd of 
September. ] 



Ellisland, August 29ih, 1791. 
My Lord, 
Language sinks under the ardour of my feel- 
ings when I Avould thank your lordship for the 
honour you have done me in inviting me to 
make one at the coronation of the bust of 
Thomson. In my first enthusiasm in reading 
the card you did me the honour to write 
me, I overlooked every obstacle, and deter- 
mined to go ; but I fear it will not be in my 
power. A week or two's absence, in the very 
middle of my harvest, is what I much doubt 
I dare not venture on. I once already made a 
pilgrimage up the whole course of the Tweed, 
and fondly would I take the same delightful 
journey down the windings of that delightful 
stream. 



Your lordship hints at an ode tor the occasion : 
but who would write after Collins? I road 
over his verses to the memory of Thomson, and 
despaired. — I got indeed to the length of three 
or four stanzas, in the way of address to the 
shade of the bard, on crowning his bust. ] 
shall trouble your lordship with the subjoined 
copy of them, which, I am afraid, will be but too 
convincing a proof how unequal I am to the 
task. 1.1'owever, it affords me an opportunity 
of approaching your lordship, and declaring how 
sincerely and gratefully I have the honour to 
be, &c. 

R.15. 



cexx. 

2To J&r, Thomas j&loa 



[Thomas Sloan was a west of Scotland man, and seems, tnou£* 
not much in correspondence, to have been on intimate terms wtt.i 
Burns.] 



Ellisland, Sept. 1, 1791. 
My dear Sloan, 

Suspense is worse than disappointment, for 
that reason I hurry to tell you that I just now 
learn that Mr. Ballantyne does not choose to 
interfere more in the business. I am truly 
sorry for it, but cannot help it. 

You blame me for 'not writing you sooner, 
but you will please to recollect that you omitted 
one little necessary piece of information ; — your 
address. 

However, you know equally well, my hui ried 
life, indolent temper, and strength of attach- 
ment It must be a longer period than the 
longest life " in the world's hale and undegene- 
rate days," that will make me forget so dear a 
friend as Mr. Sloan. I am prodigal enough at 
times, but I will not part with such a treasure 
as that. 

I can easily enter into the embarras of yom 
present situation. You know my favourite quo- 
tation from Young — 

" On reason build Resolvk ' 



That column of true majesty in man ;" 

and that other favourite one from Thomson's 
Alfred— 

" What proves the hero truly GREAT, 
Is, never, never to despair." 

Or shall I quote you an author of your a<> 
quaintance ? 

>' Whether doing, suffering, or forbkari-V.. 

Ycu may do miracles by— pe rseveri.vg." 

I have nothing new to tell you> The few 
friends we have are going on in the old way. 
I sold my crop on this day se'ennight, and sold 
it very well. A guinea an acre, on an avenu/e, 



340 



GENERAL C.OKRKSI'ON DENCE 



above value, but sucli a scone of drunkenness 
was hardly ever seen in this country. After 
the roup was over, about thirty people engaged 
in a battle, every man for his own hand, and 
fought it out for three hours. Nor was the 
scene much better in the house. No fighting, 
indeed, but folks lying drunk on the floor, and de- 
canting, until both my dogs got so drunk by at- 
tending them, that they could not stand. You 
wi 11 easily guess how I enjoyed the scene ; as I 
was no farther over than you used to see me. 

Mrs. B. and family have been in Ayrshire 
these many weeks. 

Farewell ; and God bless you, my dear Friend ! 

R.B. 



CCXXI. 

£To Eafcg IE. <£unntng!jam- 



["The poem enclosed was the Lament for James, Earl of Glencairn : 
it is probable that the Earl's sister liked the verses, for they were 
printed soon afterwards.] 

My LaDY, 

I would, as usual, have availed myself of the 
privilege your goodness has allowed me, of send- 
ing you any thing I compose in my poetical.way; 
but as I had resolved, so soon as the shock of 
my irreparable loss would allow me, to pay a 
tribute to my late benefactor, I determined to 
make that the first piece I should do myself the 
honour of sending you. Had the wing of my 
fancy been equal to the ardour of my heart, the 
enclosed had been much more worthy your peru- 
sal : as it is, I beg leave to lay it at your lady- 
ship's feet. As all the world knows my obliga- 
tions to the late Earl of Glencairn, I would wish 
to show as openly that my heart glows, and 
will ever glow, with the most grateful sense 
and remembrance of his lordship's goodness. 
The sables I did myself the honour to 
wear to his lordship's memory, were not the 
" mockery of woe." Nor shall my gratitude 
perish with me ! — if, among my children, I shall 
have a son that has a heart, he shall hand it 
down to his child as a family honour, and a fa- 
mily debt, that my dearest existence I owe to 
the noble house of Glencairn ! 

I was about to say, my lady that if you think 
the poem may venture to see the light, I would, 
in some way or other, give it to the world. 

R.B. 



CCXXII. 

[It has been said that the poet loved to aggravate his follies to hw 
friends : but that this tone of aggravation was often ironical, thfa 
letter, as well as others, might be cited.] 

EMsland, i791. 
My dear Ainslie, 

Can you minister to a mind diseased ? can 
you, amid the horrors of penitence, remorse, 

head-ache, nausea, and all the rest of the d d 

hounds of hell, that beset a poor wretch, who 
has been guilty of the sin of drunkenness — can 
you speak peace to a troubled soul ? 

Miserable perdu that T am, I have tried ever} 
thing that, used to amuse me, but in vain : here 
must I sit, a monument of the vengeance laid 
up in store for the wicked, slowly counting every 
chick of the clock as it slowly, slowly, numbers 
over these lazy scoundrels of hours, who, d — i, 
them, are ranked up before me, every one at 
his neighbour's backside, and every one with a 
burthen of anguish on his back, to pour on my 
devoted head — and there is none to pity me. 
My wife scolds me ! my business torments me, 
and my sins come staring me in the face, every 
one telling a more bitter tale than his fellow. — 
When I tell you even * * * has lost its power 
to please, you will guess something of my hell 
within, and all around me — I began- Elibanks 
and Eiibraes, but the stanzas fell unenjoyed, 
and unfinished from my listless tongue : ai 
last I luckily thought of reading over an old 
letter of yours, that lay by me in my book-case, 
and I felt something for the first time since I 

opened my eyes, of pleasurable existence. 

Well — 1 begin to breathe a little, since I 
began to write to you. How are you, and 
what are you doing ? How goes Law ? Apro- 
pos, for connexion's sake, do not address to 
me supervisor, for that is an honour I can- 
not pretend to — I am on the list, as we call 
it, for a supervisor, and will be called out by 
and bye to act as one ; but at present, I am a 
simple gauger, tho' t'other day I got an ap- 
pointment to an excise division of 25/. per annum 
better than the rest. My present income, down 
money, is JGl. per annum. 

I have one or two good fellows here whom 
you would be glad to know. 

R.B. 



CCXXIII. 
^o <&ol. dFwUarton. 

OF FUL1ARTON. 
[This letter was first published in the Edinburgh Chronicle. ' 

Ellistand, 1791. 
Sir, 

I have just this minute got the frank, and 
next minute must send it to post, else I purposed 



OF KOilfiKT 15 URNS. 



34) 



to have sent you two or three other bagatelles, 
that might have amused a vacant hour about 
as well as " Six excellent new songs/' or, the 
Aberdeen ' Prognostication for the year to 
come.' I shall probably trouble you soon with 
another packet. About the gloomy month of 
November, when { the people of England hang 
and drown themselves,' any thing generally is 
better than one's own thought. 

Fond as I may be of my own productions, 
it is not for their sake that I am so anx- 
ious to send you them. I am ambitious, co- 
vetously ambitious of being known to a gen- 
tleman whom I am proud to call my coun- 
tryman ; a gentleman who was a foreign am- 
bassador as soon as he was a man, and a leader 
of armies as soon as he was a soldier, and that 
with an eclat unknown to the usual minions of a 
ijourt, men who, with all the adventitious ad- 
vantages of princely connexions and princely 
fortune, must yet, like the caterpillai", labour a 
whole lifetimebefore they reach the wished height, 
there to roost a stupid chrysalis, and doze out 
the remaining glimmering existence of old age. 

If the gentleman who accompanied you 
when you did me the honour of calling on me, 
is with you, I beg to be respectfully remem- 
bered to him. 

I have the honour to be, 

Sir, 
Your highly obliged, and most devoted 
Humble servant 

R. B. 



CCXXIV. 

2To J&t'gg I9auteg. 



f Tnis accomp'ishcd lady was the yoangest daughter of Dr. Danes, 
of Tenby, in 1\ mbrokeshire: she was related to the Riddels of 
Friar's Carse, and one of her sisters married Captain Adam Gordon, 
of rhe noble family of Kenmure. She had both taste and skill in 



It is impossible, Madam, that the generous 
warmth and angelic purity of your youthful 
mind, can have any idea of that moral disease 
under which I unhappily must rank as the chief 
of sinners ; I mean a torpitude of the moral 
powers, that may be called, a lethargy of con- 
science. — In vain Remorse rears her horrent 
crest, and rouses all her snakes : beneath the 
deadly fixed eye and leaden hand of Indolence, 
their wildest ire is charmed into the torpor of the 
bat, slumbering out the rigours of winter, in the 
chink of a ruined wall. Nothing less, Madam, 
could have made me so long neglect your 
obliging commands. Indeed I had one apology 
-—the bagatelle was not worth presenting. Be- 



sides, so strongly am I interested in Miss Davies's 
fate and welfare in the serious business of life, 
amid its chances and changes, that to make 
her the subject of a silly ballad is downright 
mockery of these ardent feelings; 'tis like an 
impertinent jest to a dying friend. 

Gracious Heaven ! why this disparity between 
our wishes and our powers ? Why is the most 
generous wish to make others blest, impotent 
and ineffectual— as the idle breeze that crosses 
the pathless desert ! In my walks of life 1 
have met with a few people to whom how gladly 
would I have said — " Go, be happy ! I know 
that your hearts have been wounded by the 
scorn of the proud, whom accident has placed 
above you— or worse still, in whose hands are, 
perhaps, placed many of the comforts of your 
life. But there ! ascend that rock, Indepen- 
dence, and look justly down on their littleness 
of soul. Make the worthless tremble under 
your indignation, and the foolish sink before 
your contempt ; and largely impart that happi- 
ness to others, which, I am certain, will give 
yourselves so much pleasure to bestow." 

"Why, dear Madam, must I wake from this 
delightful reverie, and find it all a dream ? 
Why, amid my generous enthusiasm, must I 
find myself poor and powerless, incapable of 
wiping one tear from the eye of pity, or of add- 
ing one comfort to the friend I love! — Out 
upon the world, say I, that its affairs are admin- 
istered so ill! They talk of reform; — good 
Heaven ! what a reform would I make among 
the sons and even the daughters of men ! — 
Down, immediately, should go fools from the 
high places, where misbegotten chance has 
perked them up, and through life should they 
skulk, ever haunted by their native insignifi- 
cance, as the body marches accompanied by its 
shadow. — As for a much more formidable class, 
the knaves, I am at a loss what to do with 
them : had I a world, there should not be a 
knave in it. 

But the hand that could give, I would libe- 
rally fill: and I would pour delight on the 
heart that could kindly forgive, and generously 
love. 

Still the inequalities of life are, among men, 
comparatively tolerable — biit there is a deli- 
cacy, a tenderness, accompanying every view in 
which we can place lovely Woman, that are 
grated and shocked at the rude, capricious 
distinctions of fortune. Woman is the blood- 
royal of life : let there be slight degrees of pre. 
cedency among them — but let them be all 
sacred. — Whether this last sentiment be right 
or wrong, I am not accountable; it is an original 
component feature of my mind. 

R.B. 



842 



(i KN ERA l, CURUFSl'ON DEtfOJE 



ccxxv. 

Zo i&i% Uttnlop. 



[Rums, says Crnmek, acknowledged that a refined and accon 
plisheJ woman, was a being all hut new to him, till lie went I 
luliiiburgh.aml received letters from Mrs. Dunlop.J 



El/ island, \1th December, 1701. 

Many thanks to you, Madam, for your good 
news respecting the little floweret and the mo- 
ther-plant. I hope my poetic prayers have 
been heard, and will bo answered up to the 
warmest sincerity of their fullest extent ; and 
then Mrs. Henri will find her little darling the 
representative of his late parent, in every thing 
but his abridged existence. 

I have just finished the following song, which 
to a lady the descendant of Wallace — and many 
heroes of his truly illustrious line — and herself 
the mother of several soldiers, needs neither 
preface nor apology. 

" Scene— Afield of batik— time of the day, evening ; 
the wounded and dying of the victorious army are 
supposed to join in the following 

SONG OF DEATH. 

Farewell, thou fair day, thou green earth, and 
ye skies 
Now gay with the bright setting sun ; 
Farewell, loves and friendships, ye dear, ten- 
der ties — 
Our race of existence is run ! 

The circumstance that gave rise to the forego- 
ing verses was, looking over with a musical 
friend M 'Donald's collection of Highland airs, I 
was struck with one, an Isle of Sky e tune, entitled 
"Or&n an Aoig, or, the "Song of Death," to the 
measure of which I have adapted my stanzas. 
I have of late composed two or three other little 
pieces, which, ere yon full-orbed moon, whose 
broad impudent face now stares at old mother 
earth all night, shall have shrunk into a modest 
crescent, just peeping forth at dewy dawn, I 
shall find an hour to transcribe for you. A Dieu 
je vous commende. 

R. 13. 



CCXXVI. 

€o 0\t%. IBtmlop. 



[That the poet spoke mildly concerning the rebuke which he re- 
ceived from the Kxcise, on what he calls his political delinquencies, 
his letter to Erskine of Mar sufficiently proves. J 

blh January, 1702. 
You see my hurried life, Madam : I can only 
command starts of time; however, I am glad of 
one thing; since I finished the other sheet, the 



political blast that threatened my welfare is 
overblown. I have corresponded with Commis- 
sioner Graham, for the board had made me the 
subject of their animadversions ; and now I 
have the pleasure of informing you, that ail ia 
sot to rights in that quarter. Now as to these 

informers, may the devil be let loose to 

but, hold ! I was praying most fervently in my 
last sheet, and I must not so soon fall a swear- 
ing in this. 

Alas ! how little do the wantonly or idly of- 
ficious think what mischief they do by their ma- 
licious insinuations, indirect impertinence, or 
thoughtless blabbings. What a difference there 
is in intrinsic worth, candour, benevolence, gene- 
rosity, kindness, — in all the charities and all the 
virtues, between one class of human beings 
and another ! For instance, the amiable circle I 
so lately mixed with in the hospitable hall of 
Dunlop, their generous hearts — their uncon- 
taminated dignified minds — their informed and 
polished understandings — what a contrast, when 
compared — if such comparing were not down- 
right sacrilege — with the soul of the miscreant 
who can deliberately plot the destruction of an 
honest man that never offended him, and with a 
grin of satisfaction see the unfortunate being, 
his faithful wife, and prattling innocents, turned 
over to beggary and ruin ! 

Your cup, my dear Madam, arrived safe. 1 
had two worthy fellows dining with me the 
other day, when I with great formality, pro- 
duced my whigmeeleerie cup, and told them 
that it had been a family-piece among the de- 
scendants of William Wallace. This roused 
such an enthusiasm, that they insisted on bum- 
pering the punch round in it ; and by and by, 
never did your great ancestor lay a Suthron 
more completely to rest, than for a time did 
your cup my two friends. Apropos, this is the 
season of wishing. May God bless you, my dear 
friend, and bless me, the humblest, and sincerest 
of your friends, by granting you yet many re- 
turns of the season ! May all good things at- 
tend you and yours wherever they are scattered 
over the earth ! 

R.B. 



CCXXVII. 
STo 0lv. milliard £>mdlte, 

/'SINTER. 



[When Burns sends his warmest wishes to Smellie, and prays Chat 
fortune may never place his subsistence at the mercy of a knave, or 
set his character on the judgment of a fool, he had his political eno- 
mies probably in his mind. J 



Dumfries, 22nd January, 1792. 
I sit down, my dear Sir, to introduce a young 
lady to you, and a lady in the first ranks of fash- 
ion too. What a task! to you — who care rid 



OF KOJIKU'I' BUKNS. 



«4h 



mere for the herd of animals called young ladies, j 
than you do for the herd of animals called young 
gentlemen. To you — who despise and detest 
the groupings and comhinations of fashion, as 
an idiot painter that seems industrious to place 
staring fools and unprincipled knaves in the fore- 
ground of his picture, while men of sense and 
honesty are too often thrown in the dimmest 
shades. Mrs. Riddel, who will take this letter 
to town with her, and send it to you, is a cha- 
racter that, even in your own way, as a naturalist 
and a philosopher, would be an acquisition to 
your acquaintance. The lady, too, is a votary 
to the muses ; and as I think myself somewhat 
of a judge in my own trade, I assure you that 
her verses, always correct, and often elegant, 
ai e much beyond the common run of the lady- 
poetesses of the day. She is a great admirer of 
your book ; and, hearing me say that I was ac- 
quainted with you, she begged to be known toyou, 
as she is just going to pay her first visit to our 
Caledonian capital. I told her that her best way 
was, to desire her near relation, and your inti- 
mate friend, Craigdarroch, to have you at his 
house while she was there; and lest you might 
think of a lively West Indian girl, of eighteen, 
as girls of eighteen too often deserve to be 
thought of, I should take care to remove that 
prejudice. To be impartial, however, in ap- 
preciating the lady's merits, she has one unlucky 
failing : a failing which you will easily discover, 
as she seems rather pleased with indulging in 
it ; and a failing that you will easily pardon, as 
it is a sin which very much besets yourself; — 
where she dislikes, or despises, she is apt to 
make no more a secret of it, than where she 
esteems and respects. 

I will not present you with the unmeaning 
compliments of the season, but I will send you my 
warmest wishes and most ardent prayers, 
that Fortune may never throw your subsist- 
ence to the mercy of a Knave, or set your 
character on the judgment of a Fool ; but, 
that upright and erect, you may walk to an 
honest grave, where men of lettej'S shall say, 
here lies a man who did honour to science, and 
men of worth shall say, here lies a man who did 
honour to human nature. 

R.B. 



CCXXVIIL 
2To 0Lx. m. Kicol. 



[This ironical letter was in answer to c 
uoiuieel and reproof." 1 



e from Nicol, containing 



20th February, 1702. 

O thou, wisest among the wise, meridan 

blaze of prudence, full-moon of discretion, and 

chief of many counsellors ! How infinitely is 

thy puddle-headed, rattle-headed, wrong-headed, 



round-headed slave indebted to thy super-eim« 
nent goodness, that from the luminous path of 

thy own right-lined rectitude, thou lookest be- 
nignly down on an erring wretch, of whom the 
zig-zag wanderings defy all the powers of calcu- 
lation, from the simple copulation of units, up 
to the hidden mysteries of fluxions ! May one 
feeble ray of that light of wisdom which darts 
from thy sensorium, straight as the arrow of 
heaven, and bright as the meteor of inspiration, 
may it be my portion, so that I may be less un- 
worthy of the face and favour of that father of 
proverbs and master of maxims, that antipode 
of folly, and magnet among the sages, the wise 
and witty Willie Nicol ! Amen ! Amen ! Yea, 
so be it! 

For me ! I am a beast, a reptile, and know 
nothing ! From the cave of my ignorance, 
amid the fogs of my dulness, and pestilential 
fumes of my political heresies, I look up to thee, 
as doth a toad through the iron-barred lucerne 
of a pestiferous dungeon, to the cloudless glory 
of a summer sun ! Sorely sighing in bitterness 
of soul, I say, when shall my name be the quo- 
tation of the wise, and my countenance be the 
delight of the godly, like the illustrious lord of 
Laggan's many hills ? As for him, his works are 
perfect : never did the pen of calumny blur the 
fair page of his reputation, nor the bolt of hatred 
fly at his dwelling. 

Thou mirror of purity, when shall the elfin e 
lamp of my glimmerous understanding, purged 
from sensual appetites and gross desires, shine 
like the constellation of thy intellectual powers. 
— As for thee, thy thoughts are pure, and thy 
lips are holy. Never did the unhallowed breath 
of the powers of darkness, and the pleasures of 
darkness, pollute the sacred flame of thy sky- 
descended and heaven-bound desires : never 
did the vapours of impurity stain the unclouded 
serene of thy cerulean imagination. that 
like thine were the tenor of my life, like thine 
the tenor of my conversation ! then should no 
friend fear for my strength, no enemy rejoice 
in my weakness ! Then should I lie doAvn and 
rise up, and none to make me afraid. — May thy 
pity and thy prayer be exercised for, thou 
lamp of wisdom and mirror of morality ! thy 
devoted slave. 

Tt. B. 



CCXXIX. 



[Captain Grose was introduced to Burns, by his biother Anti- 
quary, of Friar's Carse ; he was collecting marerials for his work on 
the Antiquities of Scotland. | 



Dumfries, 1702. 
Str, 
1 believe among all our Scots Literati you 
have not met with Professor Dugahl Stewart, who 



344 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



fills the moral philosophy chair in the University 
of Edinburgh. To say that he is a man of the 

Hist parts, and what is more, a man of the first 
worth, to a gentleman of your general acquaint- 
ance, and who so much enjoys the luxury of un- 
encumbered freedom and undisturbed privacy, 
is not perhaps recommendation enough : — but 
when T inform you that Mr. Stewart's principal 
characteristic is your favourite feature ; that ster- 
ling independence of mind, which, though every 
man's right, so few men have the courage to 
claim, and fewer still, the magnanimity to sup- 
port : — when I tell you that unseduced by splen- 
dour, and undisgusted by wretchedness, he ap- 
preciates the merits of the various actors in the 
great dratna of life, merely as they perform their 
parts — in short, he is a man after your own 
heart, and I comply with his earnest request in 
letting you know that he wishes above all things 
to meet with you. His house, Catrine, is within 
less than a mile of Sorn Castle, which you pro- 
posed visiting ; or if you could transmit him the 
enclosed, he would with the greatest pleasure 
meet you anywhere in the neighbourhood. I 
write to Ayrshire to inform Mr. Stewart that I 
have acquitted myself of my promise. Should your 
time and spirits permit your meeting with Mr. 
Stewart, 'tis well ; if not, I hope you will forgive 
this liberty, and I have at least an opportunity 
of assuring you with what truth and respect, 
t am, Sir, 

Your great admirer, 

And very humble servant, 

R. B. 



ccxxx. 

2To jFvanct<s €ro<±c, <&% 



[This letter, interesting to all who desire to see how a poet works 
beauty and regularity out of a vulgar tradition, was first printed by 
•a Literaria."] 



iSir Egerton Brydges, in the 

Dumfries, 1792. 

Among the many witch stories I have heard, 
relating to Alio way kirk, I distinctly remember 
only two or three. 

Upon a stormy night, amid whistling squalls 
of wind, and bitter blasts of hail ; in short, on 
such a night as the devil would choose to take the 
air in ; a farmer or farmer's servant was plod- 
ding and plashing homeward with his plough- 
irons on his shoulder, having been getting some 
repairs on them at a neighbouring smithy. His 
way lay by the kirk of Alloway, and being ra- 
ther on the anxious look-out in approaching a 
place so well known to be a favourite haunt of 
the devil and the devil's friends and emissaries, 
he was struck aghast by discovering through 
the honors of the storm and stormy night, a 
light, which on his nearer approach plainly 
showed 'teelf to proceed from the haunted 



edifice. Whether he had been fortified from 
above, on his devout supplication, as is customary 
with people when they suspect the immediate 
presence of Satan ; or whether, according to 
another custom, he had got courageously drunk 
at the smithy, I will not pretend to determine ; 
but so it was that he ventured to go up to, nay 
into the very kirk. As luck would have it his 
temerity came oft* unpunished. 

The members of the infernal junto were all 
out on some midnight business or other, and he 
saw nothing but a kind of kettle or caldron, de- 
pending from the roof, over the fire, simmering 
someheads of unchristened children, limbs of exe- 
cuted malefactors, &c. for the b usin ess of the night. 
— It was, in for a penny in for a pound, with the 
honest ploughman : so without ceremony he 
unhooked the caldron from off the fire, and 
pouring out the damnable ingredients, inverted 
it on his head, and carried it fairly home, where 
it remained long in the family, a living evidence 
of the truth of the story. 

Another story, which I can prove to be equally 
authentic, was as follows : 

On a market day in the town of Ayr, a farmer 
from Carrick, and consequently whose way lay 
by the very gate of Alloway kirk-yard, in order 
to cross the river Hoon at the old bridge, which 
is about two or three hundred yards farther on 
than the said gate, had been detained by his 
business, till by the time he reached Alloway 
it was the wizard hour, between night and morn- 
ing. 

Though he was terrified with a blaze stream- 
ing from the kirk, yet it is a well-known fact 
that to turn back on these occasions is running 
by far the greatest risk of mischief, he prudently 
advanced on his road. When he had reached 
the gate of the kirk -yard, he was surprised and 
entertained, through the ribs and arches of an old 
gothic window, which still faces the highway, to 
see a dance of witches merrily footing it round 
their old sooty blackguard master, who was 
keeping them all alive with the power of his 
bag-pipe. The farmer stopping his horse to ob- 
serve them a little, could plainly descry the faces 
of many old women of his acquaintance and 
neighbourhood. How the gentleman was dressed 
tradition does not say ; but that the ladies were 
all in their smocks: and one of them happening 
unluckily to have a smock which was consider- 
ably too short to answer all the purpose of that 
piece of dress, our farmer was so tickled, that 
he involuntarily burst out, with a loud laugh, 
" Weel luppen, Maggy wi' the short sark!" 
and recollecting himself, instantly spurred his 
horse to the top of his speed. I need not men- 
tion the universally known fact, that no diaboli- 
cal power can pursue you beyond the middle of 
a running stream. Lucky it was for the poor 
fanner that the river Doon was so near, for 
notwithstanding the speed of his horse, which 
was a good one, against he reached the middle 
of the arch of the bridge, and consequently 
the middle of the stream, the pursuing, vengeful 



OF ROIJKKT HUKNS. 



845 



hags, were so close at his heels, that one of them, 
actually sprung to seize him ; hut it was too 
late, nothing was on her side of the stream but the 
horse's tail, which immediately gave way at her 
infernal grip, as if blasted by a stroke of light- 
ning ; but the farmer was beyond her reach. 
However, the unsightly, tailless condition of 
the vigorous steed was, to the last hour of the 
noble creature's life, an awful warning to the 
Carrick farmers, not to stay too late in Ayr 
markets. 

The last relation I shall give, though equally 
true, is not so well identified as the two former, 
with regard to the scene ; but as the best au- 
thorities give it for Alloway, I shall relate it. 

On a summer's evening, about the time that 
nature puts on her sables to mourn the expiry 
of the cheerful day, a shepherd boy, belonging 
to a farmer in the immediate neighbourhood of 
Alloway kirk, had just folded his charge, and 
was returning home. As he passed the kirk, in 
the adjoining field, he fell in with a crew of men 
and women, who were busy pulling stems of the 
plant Ragwort. He observed that as each per- 
son pulled a Ragwort, he or she got astride of it, 
and called out, "Up horsie I" on which the Rag- 
wort flew off, like Pegasus, through the air with 
its rider. The foolish boy likewise pulled his 
Ragwort, and cried with the rest, "Up horsie!" 
and, strange to tell, away he flew with the com- 
pany. The first stage at which the cavalcade 
stopt, was a merchant's wine-cellar in Bordeaux, 
where, without saying by your leave, they quaffed 
away at the best the cellar could afford, until 
the morning, foe to the imps and works of dark- 
ness, threatened to throw light on the matter, 
and frightened them from their carousals. 

The poor shepherd lad, being equally a stran- 
ger to the scene and the liquor, heedlessly got 
himself drunk; and when the rest took horse, 
he fell asleep, and was found so next day by 
some of the people belonging to the merchant. 
Somebody that understood Scotch, asking him 
what he was, he said such-a-one's herd in Al- 
loway, and by some means or other getting home 
again, he lived long to tell the world the won- 
drous ta.it' 

I am, &c. 

R.B. 



CCXXXI 
^o ilttr. & ©larfce, 

EDINBURGH. 



|This introduction of Clarke, the musician, to the M'MuiVo's oi 
Drumlanrig, brought to two of the ladies the choicest honours of the 
rmise.1 

July 16, 1692. 
Ms. Burns begs leave to present his most re- 
spectful compliments to Mr. Clarke, — Mr B. 



some time ago did himself the honour of writing 
to Mr. C. respecting corning out to the coun- 
try, to give a little musical instruction in a 
highly respectable family, where Mr. C. may 
have his own terms, and may be as happy 
as indolence, the devil, and the gout will permit 
him. Mr. B. knows well how Mr. C. is engaged 
with another family; but cannot Mi-. C. find two 
or three weeks to spare to each of them ? Mr. 
B. is deeply impressed with, and awfully con- 
scious of, the high importance of Mr. C.'.s time, 
whether in the winged moments of symphonious 
exhibition, at the keys of harmony, while listen- 
ing seraphs cease their own less delightful 
strains; or in the drowsy arms of slumb'rous re- 
pose, in the arms of his dearly beloved elbow- 
chair, where the frowsy, but potent power of 
indolence, circumfuses her vapours round, and 
sheds her dews on the head of her darling son. 
But half a line conveying half a meaning from 
Mr. C. would make Mr. B. the happiest of mor- 
tals. 



CCXXXII. 



[To enthusiastic fits of admiration for the young and t 
tiful, such as Burns has expressed in this letter, he loved to gi 
— we owe some of his best songs to these sallies.] 



Annan Water Foot, 22d August, 1702. 
Do not blame me for it, Madam ; — my own 
conscience, hackneyed and weather-beaten as it 
is, in watching and reproving my vagaries, fol- 
lies, indolence, &c. has continued to punish me 
sufficiently. 

Do you think itpossible, my dear and honoured 
friend, that I could be sc lost to gratitude for 
many favours ; to esteem for much worth, and 
to the honest, kind, pleasurable tie of, now old 
acquaintance, and I hope and am sure of pro- 
gressive, increasing friendship —as for a single 
day, not to think of you — to ask the Fates what 
they are doing and about to do with my much- 
loved friend and her wide-scattered connexions, 
and to beg of them to be as kind to you and yours 
as they possibly can ? 

Apropos ! (though how it is apropos, I have 
not leisure to explain,) do you not know that I 
am almost in love with an acquaintance of yours ? 
— Almost ! said I — I am in love, souse ! over 
head and ears, deep as the most unfathomable 
abyss of the boundless ocean; but the word 
Love, owing to the intermingledoms of the good 
and the bad, the pure and the impure, in this 
world, being rather an equivocal term for ex- 
pressing one's sentiments and sensations, I must 
do justice to the sacred purity of my attachment. 
Know, then, that the heart-struck awe ; tht 
distant humble approach ; the delight we should 

4t 



'6 !() 



gknkral correspondence 



have in gazing upon and listening to a messenger 
of heaven, appearing in all the unspotted purity 
of his celestial home, among the course, polluted, 
far inferior sons of men, to deliver to them 
tidings that make their hearts swim in joy, and 
their imaginations soar in transport — such, so 
delighting and so pure, were the emotions of my 
soul on meeting the other day with Miss Lesley 

JBaillie, your neighbour, at M . Mr. B. with 

his two daughters, accompanied by Mr. H. of 
G., passing through Dumfries a few days ago, on 
their way to England, did me the honour of 
calling on me ; on which I took my horse, 
(though God knows I could ill spare the time,) 
and accompanied them fourteen or fifteen miles, 
and dined and spent the day with them. 'Twas 
about nine, I think, when I left them, and, riding- 
home, I composed the following ballad, of which 
you will probably think you have a dear bargain, 
as it will cost you another groat of postage. 
You must know that there is an old ballad be- 
ginning with — 

" My bonnie Lizie Baillie 
I'll rowe thee in my plaiddie, &c." 

So I parodied it as follows, which is literally the 
first copy, "unannointed, unanneal'd;" as Hamlet 
says.— 

O saw ye bonny Lesley 

As she gaed o'er the border ? 
She's gane like Alexander, 

To spread her conquests farther. 

So much for ballads. I regret that you are 
gone to the east country, as I am to be in Ayr- 
shire in about a fortnight. This world of ours, 
notwithstanding it has many good things in it, 
yet it has ever had this curse, that two or three 
people who would be the happier the oftener 
they met together, are almost without exception, 
always so placed as never to meet but once or 
twice a-year, which, considering the few years 
of a man's life, is a very great "evil under the 
sun," which I do not recollect that Solomon has 
mentioned in his catalogue of the miseries of 
man. I hope and believe that there is a state of 
existence beyond the grave, where the worthy 
of this life will renew their former intimacies, 
with this endearing addition, that, " we meet to 
part no more !" 



" Tell us, ye dead, 
Will none of you in pity disclose the secret, 
What 'tis you are, and we must shortly be V 

Blair. 

A thousand times have 1 made this apostrophe 
to the departed sons of men, but not one of 
them has ever thought fit to answer the question. 
" O that some courteous ghost would blab it 
out !" but it cannot be; you and I, my friend, 
must make the experiment by ourselves and for 
ourselves. However, I am so convinced that an 
unshaken faith in the doctrines of religion is not 
only necessary, by making us better men, but 
::!su by making us happier men, that I should 



take every care that your little godson, and every 
little creature that shall call me father, shall be 
taught them. 

So ends this heterogeneous letter, written at 
this wild place of the world, in the intervals of 
my labour of discharging a vessel of rum from 
Antigua. 

Ii.B. 



CCXXXIII. 

3Io JHr* (£umungf)am. 



[There is both bitterness a nd humour in this letter : the poet dis- 
courses on many matters, and woman is amnng them— but he places 
the bottle at his elbow as an antidote against the discourtesy ol 
scandal.] 

Dumfries, \Qth September, 1792. 

No ! I will not attempt an apology. — Amid all 
my hurry of business, grinding the faces of the 
publican and the sinner on the merciless wheels 
of the Excise ; making ballads, and then drink- 
ing, and singing them ; and, over and above all, 
the correcting the press-work of two different 
publications ; still, still I might have stolen five 
minutes to dedicate to one of the first of my 
friends an d fellow-creatures. I might have done, 
as I do at present, snatched an hour near " witch- 
ing time of night," and scrawled a page or two. 
I might have congratulated my friend on his 
marriage ; or I might have thanked the Cale- 
donian archers for the honour they have done v 
me, (tnough to do myself justice, I intended to 
have done both in rhyme, else I had done both 
long ere now). Well, then, here's to your good 
health ! for you must know, I have set a nip- 
perkin of toddy by me, just by way of spell, to 
keep away the meikle horned deil, or any of his 
subaltern imps who may be on their nightly 
rounds. 

But what shall I write to you ? — "The voice 
said cry," and I said, "what shall I cry ?" — O, 
thou spirit ! whatever thou art, or wherever 
thou makest thyself visible ! be thou a bogle by 
the eerie side of an auld thorn, in the dreary 
glen through which the herd-callan maun bicker 
in his gloamin route frae the faulde ! — -Be thou 
a brownie, set, at dead of night, to thy task by 
the blazing ingle, or in the solitary barn, where 
the repercussions of thy iron flail half affright 
thyself, as thou performest the work of twenty 
of the sons of men, ere the cock-crowing sum- 
mon thee to thy ample cog of substantial brose. 
Be thou a kelpie, haunting the ford or ferry, 
in the starless night, mixing thy laughing yell 
with the howling of the storm and the roaring 
of the flood, as thou viewest the perils and mise- 
ries of man on the foundering horse, or in tha 
tumbling boat! — Or, lastly, be thou a ghost, 
paying thy nocturnal visits to the hoary ruins of 
decayed grandeur ; or performing thy mystic 
rites in the shadow of the time-worn church, 
while the moon looks, without a cloud, on th« 



OV RubKKT IIUKNS. 



3-JV 



silent, ghastly dwellings of the dead around thee; 
or taking thy stand by the bedside of the villain, 
or the murderer, pourtraying on his dreaming 
fancy, pictures, dreadful as the horrors of un- 
veiled hell, and terrible as the wrath of incensed 
Deity! — Come, thou spirit, but not in these 
horrid forms ; come with the milder, gentle, 
easy inspirations, which thou breathest round 
the wig of a prating advocate, or the tete of a 
tea-sipping gossip, while their tongues run at the 
light-horse gallop of clish-maclaver for ever and 
ever — come and assist a poor devil who is quite 
jaded in the attempt to share half an idea among 
half a hundred words ; to fill up four quarto 
pages, while he has not got one single sentence 
of recollection, information, or remark worth 
putting pen to paper for. 

I feel, I feel the presence of supernatural as- 
sistance ! circled in the embrace of my elbow- 
chair, my breast labours, like the bloated Sybil 
on her three-footed stool, and like her, too, la- 
bours with Nonsense. — Nonsense, auspicious 
name J Tutor, friend, and finger-post in the 
mystic mazes of law ; the cadaverous paths of 
physic ; and particularly in the sightless soarings 
of school divinity, who, leaving Common 
Sense confounded at his strength of pinion, 
Reason, delirious with eyeing his giddy flight ; 
and Truth creeping back into the bottom of her 
well, cursing the hour that ever she offered her 
scorned alliance to the wizard power of Theo- 
logic Vision — raves abroad on all the winds. 
" On earth Discord ! a gloomy Heaven above, 
opening her jealous gates to the nineteenth thou- 
sandth part of the tithe of mankind ; and below, 
an inescapable and inexorable hell, expanding its 
leviathan jaws for the vast residue of mortals ! ! !" 
— O doctrine ! comfortable and healing to the 
weary, wounded soul of man ! Ye sons and 
daughters of affliction, ye pauvres miserables, to 
whom day brings no pleasure, and night yields 
no rest, be comforted ! " 'Tis but one to nine- 
teen hundred thousand that your situation will 
mend in this world ;" so, alas, the experience of 
the poor and the needy too often affirms ; and 
'tis nineteen hundred thousand to one, by the 
dogmas of ******* * that you will be 
damned eternally in the world to come ! 

But of all nonsense, religious nonsense is the 
most nonsensical; so enough, and more than 
enough of it. Only, by the by, will you or can 
you tell me, my dear Cunningham, why a secta- 
rian turn of mind has always a tendency to 
narrow and illiberalize the heart ? They are 
orderly ; they may be just ; nay, I have known 
them merciful : but still your children of sanctity 
move among their fellow-ci eatures with a nos- 
tril-snuffing putrescence, and a foot-spurning 
filth, in short, with a conceited dignity that your 
titled * * * * * * * * or any other of your 
Scottish lordlings of seven centuries standing, 
display when they accidentally mix among the 
many-aproned sons of mechanical life. I remem- 
ber, in my plough-boy days, I could not conceive 
it possible that a noble lord could be a looh l 



or a godly man could he a knave.- - How igno- 
rant are plough-boys ! — Nay, I have since dis- 
covered that a godly woman may be a * * * * * ! — 
But hold — Here's t'ye again — this rum is gene- 
rous Antigua, so a very unfit menstruum for 
scandal. 

Apropos, how do you like I mean really liko^ 
the married life ? Ah, my friend! matrimony 
is quite a different thing from what your love- 
sick youths and sighing girls take it to be ! But 
marriage, we are told, is appointed hy God, and 
I shall never quarrel with any of his institutions. 
I am a husband of older standing than you, and 
shall give you my ideas of the conjugal state, (en 
passant; you know I am no Latinist, is not con- 
jugal derived i'roin jugum, a yoke ?) Well then, 
the scale of good wifeship I divide into ten parts. 
— goodnature, four; good sense, two; wit, 
one ; personal charms, viz. a sweet face, elo- 
quent eyes, fine limbs, graceful carnage, (I would 
add a fine waist too, but that is so soon spoilt 
you know) all these, one ; as for the other qual- 
ities belonging to, or attending on, a wife, such 
as fortune, connexions, education, (1 mean 
education extraordinary) family blood, &c. di 
vide the two remaining degrees among them a'- 
you please ; only, remember that all these minor 
properties must be expressed by fractions, for 
there is not any one of them, in the aforesaid 
scale, entitled to the dignity of an integer. 

As for the rest of my fancies and reveries — 
how I lately met with Miss Lesley Baillie, the 
most beautiful, elegant woman in the world- 
how 1 accompanied her and her father's family 
fifteen miles on their journey, out of pure devo- 
tion, to admire the loveliness of the works of 
God, in such an unequalled display of them— 
how, in galloping home at night, I made a 
ballad on her, of which these two stanzas make 
a part— 

Thou, bonny Lesley, art a queen, 

Thy subjects we before thee ; 
Thou, bonny Lesley, art divine, 

The hearts o' men adore thee. 

The very deil he could na scathe 

Whatever wad belang thee ! 
He'd look into thy bonnie face 

And say, * I canna wrang thee.' 

—behold all these things are written in the 
chronicles of my imaginations, and shall be read 
by thee, my dear friend, and by thy belovea 
spouse, my other dear friend, at a more conve- 
nient season. . . 

Now, to thee, and to thy before-designed 
Sosom-companicn, be given the precious things 
brought forth by the sun, and the precious 
things brought forth by the moon, and tlio 
benignest influences of the stars, and the living 
streams which flow from the fountains of life, 
and by the tree of life, for ever and ever ! 
Amen ! 

R. B. 



:U8 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



CCXXXIV 
{Jfo 0Lx. Thomson. 



[George Thomson, of Edinburgh, principal clerk to the i 
for the encouraging the manufactures of Scotland, projected a work, 
entitled, " A select Collection of Original Scottish Airs, for the Voice, 
to which are added introductory and concluding Symphonies and 
Accompaniments for the Pianoforte and Violin, by Pleyel and Koze- 
luch , with select and characteristic Verses, by the most admired Scot- 
tish Poets." To Burns he applied for help in the verse: he could 
not find a truer poet, nor one to whom such a work was more con- 
genial-] 



Sill, 



Dumfries, 16th Sept. 1792. 



i have just tliis moment got your letter. As 
the request you make to me will positively add 
to my enjoyments in complying with it, I shall 
enter into your undertaking with all the small 
portion of abilities I bave, strained to their ut- 
most exertion by the impulse of enthusiasm. 
Only, don't hurry me — " Deii tak the hindmost" 
is by no means the cri de guerre of my muse. 
Will you, as I am inferior to none of you in en- 
thusiastic attachment to the poetry and music 
of old Caledonia, and,, since you request it, have 
cheerfully promised my mite of assistance — will 
you let me have a list of your airs with the first 
line of the printed verses you intend for them, 
that I may have an opportunity of suggesting 
any alteration that may occur to me ? You 
know 'tis in the way of my trade ; still leaving 
you, gentlemen, the undoubted right of pub- 
lishers to approve or reject, at your .pleasure, 
for your own publication. Apropos, if you are 
for English verses, there is, on my part, an end 
of the matter. Whether in the simplicity of the 
ballad, or the pathos of the song, I can only hope 
to please myself in being allowed at least a 
sprinkling of our native tongue. English verses, 
particularly the works of Scotsmen, that have 
merit, are certainly very eligible. " Tweedside ! " 
"Ah! the poor shepherd's mournful fate!" 
u Ah ! Chloris, could I now but sit," &c, you 
cannot mend; 1 but such insipid stuff as "To 
Fanny fair could 1 impart," &c, usually set to 
" The Mill, Mill, O !" is a disgrace to the col- 
lections in which it has already appeared, and 
would doubly disgrace a collection that will have 
the very superior merit of yours. But more of 
this in the further prosecution of the business, if 
I am called on for my strictures and amend- 
ments — I say amendments, for I will not alter 
except where I myself, at least, think that I 
amend. 

As to any remuneration, you niay think my 
songs either above or below price ; for they 
shall absolutely be the one or the other. In the 
honest enthusiasm with which I embark in your 
undertaking, to talk of money, wages, fee, hire, 
&c, would be downright prostitution of soul ! a 



"Tweedrfde" is by Crawfurd; "Ah, the poor Shepherd," &c. 
by Hamilton, of Bangour; "All! Chloris," &c, by Sir Charles 
Sedlev— Bums has attributed it n Sir Peter Halket, of Pitferran. 



proof of each of the songs that I compose or 
amend, I shall receive as a favour. In the rustic 
phrase of the season, " Gude speed the wark ,M 
I am, Sir, 
Your very humble servant, 

It. B. 



cexxxv. 



[One of the daughters of Mrs. Dunlop was married to M. Henri, 
a French gentleman, who died in 1790, at, Loudon Castle, in A\r- 
shire. The widow went with her orphan son to France, and lived 
for awhile amid the dangers of the revolution. 1 



Dumfries, 24th September, 1792. 
I have this moment, my dear Madam, yours 
of the twenty-third. All your other kind re- 
proaches, your news, &c. are out of my head 
when I read and think on Mrs. H *s situ- 
ation. Good God ! a heart-wounded helpless 
young woman — in a strange, foreign land, and 
that land convulsed with every horror that can 
harrow the human feelings — sick — looking, 
longing for a comforter, but finding none — a 
mother's feelings, too : — but it is too much : he 
who wounded (he only can) may He heal ! 
****** 

I wish the farmer great joy of his new acqui- 
sition to his family. *******I cannot say 
that I give him joy of his life as a farmer. 'Tis, 
as a farmer paying a dear, unconscionable rent, 
a cursed life ! As to a laird farming his own 
property; sowing his own corn in hope; and 
reaping it, in spite of brittle weather, in glad- 
ness ; knowing that none can say unto him, 
' what dost thou ?' — fattening his herds ; shear- 
ing his flocks ; rejoicing at Christmas ; and be- 
getting sons and daughters, until he be the vene- 
rated, grey -haired leader of a little tribe— 'tis a 
heavenly life ! but devil take the life of reaping . 
the fruits that another must eat. 

Well, your kind wishes will be gratified, as to 
seeing me when I make my Ayrshire visit. I 1 

cannot leave Mrs. B , until her nine months 

race is run, which may perhaps be in three or 
four weeks. She, too, seems determined to 
make me the patriarchal leader of a band. 
However, if Heaven will be so obliging as to let 
me have them in the proportion of three boys 
to one girl, I shall be so much the more pleased. 
I hope, if I am spared with them, to show a set 
of boys that will do honour to my cares and 
name ; but I am not equal to the task of rearing 
girls. Besides, I am too poor; a girl should 
always have a fortune. Apropos, your little 
godson is thriving charmingly, but is a very 
devil. He, though two years younger, has com- 
pletely mastered his brother. Robert is indeed 
' the mildest, gentlest creature I ever >saw. H© 



OF ROPKRT BURNS. 



340 



has a most surprising memory, and is quite the 
pride of his sch jolmaster. 

You know how readily we get into prattle 
upon a subject dear to our heart : you can ex- 
cuse it. God bless you and yours ! 

R. B. 



CCXXXVI. 
3*0 i&rs. IDunlop 



[This letter has no date: it is supposed to have been written on 
the death of her daughter, Mrs. Henri, whose orphan son, deprived 
of the protection of all his relations, was preserved by the affectionate 
kindness of Mademoiselle Susette, one of the family domestics, and 
after the Revolution obtained the estate of his blood and name.] 



I had been from home, and did not receive 
your letter until my return the other day. 
What shall I say to comfort you, my much- 
valued, much-afflicted friend ! I can but grieve 
with you ; consolation I have none to offer, 
except that which religion holds out to the 
children of affliction — children of affliction! — how 
just the expression ! and like every other family, 
they have matters among them which they hear, 
see, and feel in a serious, all-important manner, 
of which the world has not, nor cares to have, 
any idea. The world looks indifferently on, 
makes the passing remark, and proceeds to the 
next novel occurrence.,. 

Alas, Madam ! who would wish for many 
years ? What is it but to drag existence until 
our joys gradually expire, and leave us in anight 
of misery : like the gloom which blots out the 
stars one by one, from the face of night, and 
leaves us, without a ray of comfort, in the howl- 
ing waste ! 

I am interrupted, and must leave off. You 
shall soon hear from me again. 

R. B. 



CCXXXVII. 

&o 0tx. fcTjjomjson. 

[Thomson had delivered judgment on some old Scottish songs, but 
the poet murmured against George's decree.! 

My dear Sir, 

Let me tell you, that you are too fastidious in 
your ideas of songs and ballads. I own that 
your criticisms are just ; the songs you specify 
in your list have, all but one, the faults you re- 
mark-in them ; but who shall mend the matter? 
Who shall rise up and say, " Go to ! I will make 
a better ?" For instance, on reading over " The 
Loa-rig," I immediately set about trying my 



hand on it, and, after all, I could make nothing 
more of it than the following, which, Heaven 
knows, is poor enough. 

When o'er the hill the eastern star, &C. 1 

Your observation as to the aptitude of Dr. 
Percy's ballad to the air, " Nannie, O !" is just- 
It is besides, perhaps, the most beautiful ballad 
in the English language. But let me remark to 
you, that in the sentiment and style of our Scot- 
tish airs, there is a pastoral simplicity, a some- 
thing that one may call the Doric style and dia- 
lect of vocal music, to which a dash of our native 
tongue and manners is particularly, nay pecu- 
liarly, apposite. For this reason, and, upon my 
honour,for this reason alone, I am of opinion (but, 
as I told you before, my opinion is yours, freely 
yours, to approve or reject, as you please) that my 
ballad of "Nannie, O !" might perhaps do for one 
set of verses to the tune. Now don't let it enter 
into your head, that you are under any necessity 
of taking my verses. I have long ago made up 
my mind as to my own reputation in the busi- 
ness of authorship, and have nothing to be 
pleased or offended at, in your adoption or re- 
jection of my verses. Though you should reject 
one half of what I give you, I shall be pleased 
with your adopting the other half, and shall con- 
tinue to serve you with the same assiduity. 

In the printed copy of my "Nannie, !" the 
name of the river is horribly prosaic. 2 I will 
alter it : 

Behind yon hills where Lugar flows. 

Girvan is the name of the river that suits the 
idea of the stanza best, but Lugar is the most 
agreeable modulation of syllables. 

I will soon give you a great many more re- 
marks on this business ; but I have just now an 
opportunity of conveying you this scrawl, free 
of postage, an expense that it is ill able to pay : 
so, with my best compliments to honest Allan, 
Gude be wi' ye, &c. 
Friday Night. 

Saturday Morning. 

As I find I have still an hour to spare this 
morning before my conveyance goes away, I will 
give you "Nannie, O !" at length. 

Your remarks on " Ewe-bughts, Marion," are 
just ; still it has obtained a place among our 
more classical Scottish songs; and what with 
many beauties in its composition, and more pre- 
judices in its favour, you will not find it easy to 
supplant it. 

In my very early years, when I was thinking 
of going to the West Indies, I took the follow- 
ing farewell of a dear girl. It is quite trifling, 
and has nothing of the merits of " Ewe-bughts;" 
but it will fill up this page. You must know 
that all my earlier love-songs were the breath- 



1 SongCLXXVIIl. 
! It is something worse in the Edinburgh 
Is where Stirichp.r flows."— Poems, p. 322. 



a—" Behind yon 
i U 



860 



GENERAL COERESPON DENCK 



ings of ardent passion, and though it might have 
been easy in after-times to have given them a 
polish, yet that polish, to me, whose they were, 
and who perhaps alone cared for them, would 
have defaced the legend of my heart, which was 
so faithfully inscribed on them. Their uncouth 
simplicity was, as they say of wines, their race. 

Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary ? &C. 1 

"Gala Water" and "Auld Rob Morris" I 
think, will most probably be the next subject of 
my musings. However, even on my verses, 
speak out your criticisms with equal frankness. 
My wish is, not to stand aloof, the uncomplying- 
bigot of opiniatrete, but cordially to join issue 
with you in the furtherance of the work. 

R. B. 



CCXXXVIII. 



[The poet loved to desciibe the influence which the charm 
Miss Lesley Baillie exercise-1 over his imagination^ 



November 8th, 1792. 
If you mean, my dear Sir, that all the songs 
in your collection shall be poetry of the first 
merit, I am afraid you will find more difficulty 
in the undertaking than you are aware of. There 
is a peculiar rhythmus in many of our airs, and 
a necessity of adapting syllables to the emphasis, 
or what I would call the feature-notes of the 
tune, that cramp the poet, and lay him under 
almost insuperable difficulties. For instance, in 
the air, " My wife's a wanton wee thing," if a 
few lines smooth and pretty can be adapted to 
it, it is all you can expect. The following were 
made extempore to it ; and though, on further 
study I might give you something more profound, 
yet it might not suit the light-horse gallop of the 
air so well as this random clink: — 

My wife's a winsome wee thing, &c. 2 

I have just been looking over the " Collier's 
bonny dochter;" and if the following rhapsody, 
which I composed the other day, on a charming 
Ayrshire girl, Miss Lesley Baillie, as she passed 
through this place to England, will suit your 
taste better than the " Collier Lassie," fall on 
and welcome : — 

O, saw ye bonny Lesley ? &c. 3 

I have hitherto deferred the sublimer, more 
pathetic airs, until more leisure, as they will 
take, and deserve, a greater effort. However, 
they are all put into your hands, as clay into the 
hands of the potter, to make one vessel to honour, 
and another to dishonour. Farewell, &c. 

R.B. 



' SongCLXXXL 



CCXXXTX. 



[The story of Mary Campbell's love is related in the notes on the 
songs which the poet wrote in her honour. Thomson says, in his ui- 
swer, " I have heard the sad story of your Mary; ycu always seen? 
inspired when you write of her."] 



14th November, 1792. 
My dear Sir, 

I agree with you that the song, " Katharine 
Ogie," is very poor stuff, and unworthy, alto- 
gether unworthy of so beautiful an air. 1 tried 
to mend it ; but the awkward sound, Ogie, re- 
curring so often in the rhyme, spoils every 
attempt at introducing sentiment into the piece. 
The foregoing song 1 pleases myself ; I think it 
is in my happiest manner : you will see at first 
glance that it suits the air. The subject of the 
song is one of the most interesting passages of 
my youthful days, and I own that 1 should be 
much flattered to see the verses set to an air 
which would ensure celebrity. Perhaps, after 
all, 'tis the still glowing prejudice of my heart 
that throws a borrowed lustre over the merits of 
the composition. 

I have partly taken your idea of "Auld Rob 
Morris." I have adopted the two first verses, 
and am going on with the song on a. new plan, 
which promises pretty well. I take up one or 
another, just as the bee of the moment buzzes 
in my bonnet-lug ; and do you, sans ceremonie, 
make what use you choose of the productions. 
Adieu, &c. 

R. B. 



CCXL. 
£To 0Cx t ^Thomson. 



[ The poet approved of several emendations proposed by Thomson; 
whose wish was to make the words flow more readily with the music : 
lie refused, however, to ad->m others, where he thought too much of 
the sense was sacrificed.] 



Dumfries, 1st Dec. 1792. 
Your alterations of my "Nannie, O!" are 
perfectly right. So are those of "My wife's a 
winsome wee thing." Your alteration of the 
second stanza is a positive improvement. Now, 
my dear Sir, with the freedom which character- 
ises our correspondence, I must not, cannot 
alter " Bonnie Lesley." You are right ; the 
word "Alexander" makes the line a little un- 
couth, but I think the thought is pretty. Of 
Alexander, beyond all other heroes, i.t may be 
said, in the sublime language of Scripture, that 
"he went forth conquering and to conquer." 



i Ye banks and braes and streai 
The castle o' Montgomery. 



Song C IX X Kit 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



351 



For nature made her what she is, 
And never made anither. (Such a person as 

she is.) 

This is, in my opinion, moi-e poetical than 
" Ne'er made sic anither." However, it is im- 
material : make it either way. " Caledonie," I 
agree with you, is not so good a word as could 
be wished, though it is sanctioned in three or 
four instances by Allan Ramsay ; but I cannot 
help it. In short, that species of stanza is the 
most difficult that I have ever tried. 

R.B. 



CCXLI. 



I Duncan Gray, which this letter contained, became a favourite as 
soon as it was published, and the same may be said of Auld Rob 
Morris.] 

4th December, 1792. 
The foregoing ["Auld Rob Morris," and 
lt Duncan Gray," 1 ] I submit, my dear Sir, to 
your better judgment. Acquit them, or con- 
demn them, as seemeth good in your sight. 
" Duncan Gray" is that kind of light-horse gal- 
lop of an air, which precludes sentiment. The 
ludicrous is its ruling feature. 

R. B. 



CCXLII. 
3To 0to$. ISunlop. 



i Burns often discourses with Mrs. Dunlop on poetry and poets : the 
dramasof Thomson, to which he alludes,are stiff, cold compositions. ] 



Dumfries, 6th December, 1792. 

I shall be in Ayrshire, I think, next week; 
and, if at all possible, I shall certainly, my much- 
esteemed friend, have the pleasure of visiting at 
Dunlop-house. 

Alas, Madam ! how seldom do we meet in this 
world, that we have reason to congratulate our- 
selves on accessions of happiness ! I 1-iave not 
passed half the ordinary term of an old man's 
life, and yet I scarcely look over the obituary of 
a newspaper, that I do not see some names that 
I have known, and which I, and other acquaint- 
ances, little thought to meet with there so soon. 
Every other instance of the mortality of our 
kind, makes us cast an anxious look into the 
dreadful abyss of uncertainty, and shudder with 
apprehension for our own fate. But of how dif- 
ferent an importance are the lives of different 
individuals ? Nay, of what importance is one 
period of the same life, more than another ? A 
few years ago, I could have laid down in the 
dust, " careless of the voice of the morning -P 

» Songs CLXXXIN. and CLXXXIV. 



and now not a few, and these most helpless in- 
dividuals, would, on losing me and my exertions, 
lose both their "staff and shield*" By the way, 
these helpless ones have lately got an addition; 

Mrs. B having given me a fine girl since 

I wrote you. There is a charming passage in 
Thomson's " Edward and Eleonora :" 

"The rattan tin himself, what can he suffer? 
Or what need he regard his tingle woes?" &c. 

As I am got in the way of quotations, I shall 
give you another from the same piece, peculiarly, 
alas ! too peculiarly apposite, my dear Madam, 
to your present frame of mind : 

" Who so unworthy but may proudly deck him 
With his fair-weather virtue, that exults 
Glad o'er the summer main ? the tempest comes, 
The rough winds rage aloud; when from the helm 
This virtue shrinks, and in a corner lies 
Lamenting— Heavens! if privileged from trial, 
How cheap a thing were virtue !" 

I do not remember to have heard you men- 
tion Thomson's dramas. I pick up favourite 
quotations, and store them in my mind as ready 
armour, offensive or defensive, amid the struggle 
of this turbulent existence. Of these is one. a 
very favourite one, from his " Alfred :" 



"Attach thee firmly to the virtuous deeds 
And offices of life ; to life itself, 
With all its vain and transient joys, sit loose." 

Probably I have quoted some of these to you 
formerly, as indeed when I write from the heart, 
I am apt to be guilty of such repetitions. The 
compass of the heart, in the musical style of ex- 
pression, is much more bounded than that of the 
imagination ; so the notes of the former are ex- 
tremely apt to run into one another ; but in re- 
turn for the paucity of its compass, its few notes 
are much more sweet. I must still give you an- 
other quotation, which I am almost sure I have 
given you before, but I cannot resist the tempt- 
ation. The subject is religion — speaking of its 
importance to mankind, the author says, 

"'Tis this, my friend, that streaks our morning bright." 

I see you are in for double postage, so I shall 
e'en scribble out t'other sheet. We, in this 
country here, have many alarms of the reform- 
ing, or rather the republican spirit, of your part 
of the kingdom. Indeed we are a good deal in 
commotion ourselves. For me, I am a placeman, 
you know ; a very humble one indeed, Heaven 
knows, but still so much as to gag me. What 
my private sentiments are, you will find out 
without an interpreter. 

***** 

I have taken up the subject, and the other 
day, for a pretty actress's benefit night, I wrote 
an address, which I will give on the other page, 
called " The rights of woman :" 

While Europe's eye is fixed on mighty things." 

I shall have the honour of receiving your criti- 
cisms in person at Dunlop. 

R. B. 



bV2 



GKNEKAL CORRESPONDENCE 



CCXLIII. 



G rariam stood by the bard in the hour of peril recorded in this let- 
ler : and the Board of Excise had the generosity to permit him to eat 
his" bitter bread " for the remainder of his life. J 



Sir, 



December, 1792. 



I h ave been surprised, confounded, and dis- 
tracted by Mr. Mitchell, the collector, telling 
me that he has received an order from your 
Board to enquire into my political conduct, and 
blaming me as a person disaffected to govern- 
ment. 

Sir, you are a husband — and a father. — You 
know what you would feel, to see the much- 
loved wife of your bosom, and your helpless, 
prattling little ones, turned adrift into the world, 
degraded and disgraced from a situation in which 
they had been respectable and respected, and 
left almost without the necessary support of a 
miserable existence. Alas, Sir ! must I think 
that such, soon, will be my lot ! and from the 
d-mned, dark insinuations of hellish, groundless 
envy too ! I believe, Sir, I may aver it, and in 
the sight of Omniscience, that I would not tell a 
deliberate falsehood, no, not though even worse 
horrors, if worse can be, than those I have men- 
tioned, hung over my head ; and I say, that the 
allegation, whatever villain has made it, is a lie ! 
To the British constitution on Revolution prin- 
ciples, next after my God, I am most devoutly 
attached ; you, Sir, have been much and gene- 
rously my friend. — Heaven knows how warmly 
I have felt the obligation, and how gratefully I 
have thanked you. — Fortune, Sir, has made you 
powerful, and me impotent ; has given you pa- 
tronage, and me dependence. — I would not for 
my single self, call on your humanity ; were 
such my insular, unconnected situation, I would 
despise the tear that now swells in my eye — I 
could brave misfortune, I could face ruin ; for 
at the worst, " Death's thousand doors stand 
open ;" but, good God ! the tender concerns 
that I have mentioned, the claims and ties that I 
see at this moment, and feel around me, how they 
unnerve courage, and wither resolution ! To 
your patronage, as a man of some genius, you 
have allowed me a claim ; and your esteem, as 
an honest man, I know is my due : to these, 
Sir, permit me to appeal ; by these may I adjure 
you to save me from that misery which threatens 
to overwhelm me, and which, with my latest 
breath I will say it, I have not deserved. 

R. B. 



CCXLIV. 
Zo 0Lx#. bunion. 



[Burns was ordered, he says, to mind his duties in the Excise, and 
to hold his tongue about politics— the latter part of the injunction 
was hard to obey, for at that time politics were in every mouth.] 



Dumfries, 3lst December „ 1792. 
Bear Madam, 
A hurry of business, thrown in heaps by my 
absence, has until now prevented my returning 
my grateful acknowledgments to the good family 
of Dunlop, and you in particular, for that hospit- 
able kindness which rendered the four days I 
spent under that genial roof, four of the plea- 
santest I ever enjoyed. — Alas, my dearest friend ! 
how few and fleeting are those things we call 
pleasures ! on my road to Ayrshire, I spent a 
night with a friend whom I much valued ; a man 
whose days promised to be many ; and on Satur- 
day last we laid him in the dust ! 

Jan. 2, 1793. 

I have just received yours of the 30th, and 
feel much for your situation. However I heartily 
rejoice in your prospect of recovery from that 
vile jaundice. As to myself, I am better, though 
not quite free of my complaint. — You must not 
think, as you seem to insinuate, that in my way 
of life I want exercise. Of that I have enough ; 
but occasional hard drinking is the devil to me. 
Against this I have again and again bent my re- 
solution, and have greatly succeeded. Taverns 
I have totally abandoned : it is the private par* 
ties in the family way, among the hard-drinking 
gentlemen of this country, that do me the mis- 
chief — but even this I have more than half 
given over. 

Mr. Corbet can be of little service to me at 
present ; at least I should be shy of applying. 
I cannot possibly be settled as a supervisor, for 
several years. I must wait the rotation of the 
list, and there are twenty names before mine. — 
I might indeed get a job of officiating, where a 
settled supervisor was ill, or aged ; but that 
hauls me from my family, as I could not remove 
them on such an uncertainty. Besides, some 
envious, malicious devil, has raised a little demur 
on my political principles, and I wish to let that 
matter settle before I offer myself too much in 
the eye of my supervisors. I have set, hence- 
forth, a seal on my lips, as to these unlucky 
politics ; but to you, I must breathe my senti- 
ments. In this, as in every thing else, I shall 
show the undisguised emotions of my soul. War 
I deprecate : misery and ruin to thousands are 
in the blast that announces the destructive 
demon. 

R. B. 



OF KOBKKT BUKNS. 



858 



CCXLV 



(The songs to which he poet a'..udes were " 1'oortith Cauld," and 
Galla Water."] 

Jan. 1793. 

Many returns of the season to you, my dear 
Sir. How conies on your publication ?— will 
these two foregoing [Songs clxxxv. and 
clxxxvi.] be of any service to you ? I should 
like to know what songs you print to each 
tune, besides the verses to which it is set. 
In short, I would wish to give you my opinion 
on all the poetry you publish. You know it is 
my trade, and a man in the way of his trade 
may suggest useful hints that escape men of 
much superior parts and endowments in other 
things. 

If you meet with my dear and much-valued 
Cunningham, greet him, in my name, with the 
compliments of the season. 

Yours, &c. 

It.B. 



CCXLVI. 



[Thomson explained more fully than at first the plan of his publi- 
cation, and stated that Dr. Beattie had promised an essay on Scottish 
music, by way of an introduction to the work.] 



26th January, 1793. 

I approve greatly, my dear Sir, of your plans. 
Dr. Beattie' s essay will, of itself, be a treasure, 
On my part, I mean to draw up an appendix to 
the Doctor's essay, containing my stock of anec- 
dotes, &c, of our Scots songs. All the late Mr. 
Ty tier's anecdotes I have by me, taken down in 
the course of my acquaintance with him, from 
his own mouth. I am such an enthusiast, that 
in the course of my several peregrinations 
through Scotland, I made a pilgrimage to the 
individual spot from which every song took its 
rise, "Lochaber" and the "Braes of Ballenden" 
excepted. So far as the locality, either from the 
title of the air, or the tenor of the song, could be 
ascertained, I have paid my devotions at the 
particular shrine of every Scots muse. 

I do not doubt but you might make a very 
valuable collection of jacobite songs; but would 
it give no offence ? In the meantime, do not 
you think that some of them, particularly " The 
sow's tail to Geordie," as- an air, with other 
words, might be well worth a place in your col- 
lection of lively songs ? 

If it were possible to procure songs of merit, 
it would be proper to have one set of Scots words 
to ev«ry air, and that the set of words to which 



the notes ought to be set. There is a - a'ivett, a 
pastoral simplicity, in a slight intermixture of 
Scots words and phraseology, which is more in 
unison (at least to my taste, and, I will add, to 
every genuine Caledonian taste) with the simple 
pathos, or rustic sprightliness of our native music, 
than any English verses whatever. 

The very name of Peter Pindar is an acquisi- 
tion to your work. His " Gregory" is beautifuL 
I have tried to give you a set of stanzas in Scots, 
on the same subject, whicli are at your service. 
Not that I intend to enter the lists with Peter — 
that would be presumption indeed. My song, 
though much inferior in poetic merit, has, f think, 
more of the ballad simplicity in it. 

THere follows " Lord Gregory." Snng CLXXX VII. 

My most respectful compliments to the ho- 
nourable gentleman who favoured me with a 
postscript in your last. He shall hear from me 
and receive his MSS. soon. 

Yours, 

R. \\. 



CCXLVII 
ft JHr. ©tmmng&am. 



[The seal, with the coat-of-arms whicli thti p. et 
the family, and regarded as a relique.] 



Hrd March, 1793. 

Since I wrote to you the last lugubrious sheet, 
I have not had time to write you further. When 
I say that I had not time, that, as usual, means, 
that the three demons, indolence, business, and 
ennui, have so completely shared my hours 
among them, as not to leave me a five minutes' 
fragment to take up a pen in. 

Thank heaven, I feel my spirits buoying up- 
wards with the renovating year. Now I shall in 
good earnest take up Thomson's songs. I dare 
say he thinks I have used him unkindly, and I 
must own with too much appearance of truth. 
Apropos, do you know the much admired old 
Highland air called "The Sutor's Dochter ?" 
It is a first-rate favourite of mine, and I have 
written what I reckon one of my best songs to 
it. 1 will send it to you as it was sung with 
great applause in some fashionable circles by 
Major Robertson, of Lude, who was here with 
his corps. 

****** 

There is one commission that I must trouble 
you with. I lately lost a valuable seal, a pre- 
sent from a departed friend, which vexes me 
much. 

I have gotten one of your Highland pebbles, 
which I fancy would make a very decent one 
and I want to cut my armorial bearing on it: 
will you be so obliging a* enquire what w T ill be 

4 X 



354 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



the expense of such a business ? I do not know 
that my name is matriculated, as the heralds 
call it, at all ; but I have invented arms for my- 
self, so you know I shall be chief of the name ; 
and, by courtesy of Scotland, will likewise be 
entitled to supporters. These, however, I do 
not intend having on my seal. I am a bit of a 
herald, and shall give you, secundum artem, my 
arms. On a field, azure, a holly-bush, seeded, 
proper, in base ; a shepherd's pipe and crook, 
saltier-wise, also proper in chief. On a wreath 
of the colours, a wood-lark perching a sprig of 
bay-tree, proper, for crest. Two mottos ; round 
the top of the crest, Wood notes wild; at the bot- 
tom of the shield, in the usual place, Better a wee 
lush than nae Meld. By the shepherd's pipe and 
crook 1 do not mean the nonsense of painters of 
Arcadia, but a stock and horn, and a club, such as 
you see at the head of Allan Ramsay, in Allan's 
quarto edition of the Gentle Shepherd. By the 
by, do you know Allan ? He must be a man of 
very great genius — Why is he not more known ? 
— Has he no patrons? or do "Poverty's cold 
wind and crushing rain beat keen and heavy" 
on him ? I once, and but once, got a glance of 
that noble edition of the noblest pastoral in the 
world ; and dear as it was, I mean, dear as to 
my pocket, I would have bought it ; but I was 
told that it was printed and engraved for sub- 
scribers only. He is the only artist who has hit 
genuine pastoral costume. What, my dear Cun- 
ningham, is there in riches, that they narrow 
and harden the heart so? I think, that were I 
as rich as the sun, I shoxild be as generous as 
the day ; but as I have no reason to imagine my 
soul a nobler one than any other man's, I must 
conclude that wealth imparts a bird-lime quality 
to the possessor, at which the man, in his native 
poverty, would have revolted. What has led 
me to this, is the idea of such merit as Mr. Allan 
possesses, and such riches as a nabob or govern- 
ment contractor possesses, and why they do not 
form a mutual league. Let wealth shelter and 
cherish unprotected merit, and the gratitude and 
celebrity of that merit will richly repay it. 

R. B. 



CCXLVIII. 
2To $&x. &f)om$on. 



f Sums in these careless words makes us acqufiintod with one of hb 

t songs.] 



20/A March, 1793. 

My dear Sir, 

The song prefixed ["Mary Morison" 1 ] is one 

of my juvenile works. I leave it in your hands. 

I do not think it very remarkable, either for its 

merits or demerits. It is impossible (at least I 

' SongCLXXXVIH 



feel it so in my stinted powers) to be alwajnfl 

original, entertaining, and witty. 

What is become of the list, &c.,of your songs? 
I shall be out of all temper with you, by and bye. 
I have always looked on myself as the prince ol 
indolent correspondents, and valued myself ac- 
cordingly ; and I will not, cannot, bear rivalship 
from you, nor any body else. 

R. B. 



CCXLTX 
2To 0Lx. tEfjomson. 



[For the " Wandering Willie" of this communication Thomson 
offered several corrections.] 



March, 1793. 
Here awa, there awa, wandering Willie, 

Now tired with wandering, baud awa hame ; 
Come to my bosom, my ae only dearie, 
And tell me thou bring' st me my Willie the 
same. 

Loud blew the cauld winter winds at our part- 
ing ; 
It was na the blast brought the tear in my e'e; 
Now welcome the simmer, and welcome my 
Willie, 
The simmer to nature, my Willie to me. 

Ye hurricanes, rest in the cave o' your slumbers ! 

Oh how your wild horrors a lover alarms ! 
Awaken, ye breezes ! blow gently, ye billows ! 

And waft my dear laddie ance mair to my 
arms. 

But if he's forgotten his faithfullest Nannie, 
Oh still flow between us, thou wide, roaring 
main; 

May I never see it, may I never trow it, 

But, dying, believe that my Willie's my am ! 

I leave it to you, my dear Sir, to determine 
whether the above, or the old " Thro' the lang 
muir I have followed my Willie," be the best. 

R,B. 



CCL 



[Miss Benson, when this letter was written, was on a visit to a?- 
bigland, the beautiful seat of Captain Craik ; she is now Mrs. Basil 
Montagu.] 



Dumfries, 2lst March, 1793. 
Madam, 
Among many things for which I envy those 
hale, long-lived old fellows before the flood, is 



OK HOBICkT BURNS. 



this in particular, that when they met with any 
body after their own heart, they had a charming 
long prospect of many, many happy meetings 
with them in after-life. 

Now in this short, stormy, winter day of our 
fleeting existence, when you now and then, in 
the Chapter of Accidents, meet an individual 
whose acquaintance is a real acquisition, there 
are all the probabilities against you, that you 
shall never meet with that valued character 
more. On the other hand, brief as this miser- 
able being is, it is none of the least of the mise- 
ries belonging to it, that if there is any miscreant 
whom you hate, or creature whom you despise, 
the ill-run of the chances shall be so against you, 
that in the overtakings, turnings, and jostlings 
of life, pop, at some unlucky corner, eternally 
comes the wretch upon you, and will not allow 
your indignation or contempt a moment's repose. 
As I am a sturdy believer in the powers of 
darkness, I take these to be the doings of that 
old author of mischief, the devil. It is well- 
known that he has some kind of shorthand way 
of taking down our thoughts, and I make no 
doubt he is perfectly acquainted with my senti- 
ments respecting Miss Benson : how much I 
admired her abilities and valued her worth, and 
how very fortunate I thought myself in her ac- 
quaintance. For this last reason, my dear 
Madam, I must entertain no hopes of the very 
great pleasure of meeting with you again. 

Miss Hamilton tells me that she is sending a 
packet to you, and I beg leave to send you the 
enclosed sonnet, though, to tell you the real 
truth, the sonnet is a mere pretence, that I 
may have the opportunity of declaring with 
how much respectful esteem I have the honour 
to be, &c. 

R. B. 



CCLI. 

^o Patrick ffiilUx, 3Egq. 

OF DALSWINTON. 



'The time to which Burns alludes was the peiiod of his occupation 
of Ellisland.] 



Sir, 



Dumfries, April, 1793. 



My poems having just come out in another 
edition, will you do me the honour to accept of 
a copy ? A mark of my gratitude to you, as a 
gentleman to whose goodness I have been much 
indebted ; of my respect for you, as a patriot 
who, in a venal, sliding age, stands forth the 
champion of the liberties of my country ; and of 
my veneration for you, as a man, whose benevo- 
lence of heart does honour to human nature. 

There was a time, Sir, when I was vour de- 



pendent : this language then would have been 
like the vile incense of flattery — I could not have 
used it. — Now that connexion is at an end, do 
me the honour to accept of this honest tribute of' 
respect from, Sir, 

Your much indebted humble servant, 

n. B. 



CCLII 
2To 0Lx. Thomson 



[This review of our Scottish lyrics is well worth the attention of all 

who write songs, read songs, or sing songs. J 

1th April, ITXi. 

Thank you, my dear Sir, for your packet. 
You cannot imagine how much this business of 
composing for your publication has added to my 
enjoyments. "What with my early attachment 
to ballads, your book, &c, ballad-making is now 
as completely my hobby-horse as ever fortifica- 
tion was Uncle Toby's; so I'll e'en canter it 
away till I come to the limit of my race — God 
grant that I may take the right side of the win- 
ning post ! — and then cheerfully looking bade 
on the honest folks with whom I have been 
happy, I shall say or sing. " Sae merry as we a' 
hae been \" and, raising my last looks to the 
whole human race, the last words of the voice 
of " Coila" 1 shall be, " Good night, and joy be 
wi'' you a' !" So much for my last words : now 
for a few present remarks, as they have occurred 
at random, on looking over your list. 

The first lines of " The last time I came 
o'er the moor," and several other lines in it, are 
beautiful ; but, in my opinion — pardon me, re- 
vered shade of Ramsay ! — the song is unworthy 
of the divine air. I shall try to make or mend. 

" For ever, fortune wilt thou prove," 2 is a 
charming song ; but " Logan burn and Logan 
braes" is sweetly susceptible of rural imagery; 
I'll try that likewise, and, if I succeed, the other 
song may class among the English ones. I re- 
member the two last lines of a verse in some of 
the old songs of " Logan Water 1 ' (for I know 
a good many different ones) which 1 think 
pretty : — 

" Now my dear lad maun face his faes, 
Far, far frae me and Logan biaes." A 

" My Patie is a lover gay," is unequal. "His 
mind is never muddy," is a muddy expression 
indeed. 

" Then I'll resign and many Pate, 
And syne my cockernony— " 

This is' surely far unworthy of Ramsay or your 
book. My song, " Rigs of barley,''' to the same 



1 Burns here calls himself the " Voice of Ccila," in imitation ol 
Ossian, who denominates himself the " Voice of Cona."— CURiil K. 

-' By Thomson, not the rc.usician, but the poet. 

3 This song is not old, lh> author, the late John Mayne, long out- 
lived Burns. 



356 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



tune, does not altogether please me ; but if I can 

mend it, and thrash a few loose sentiments out 
of it, I will submit it to your consideration. 
" The lass o' Patie's mill" is one of Ramsay's 
best songs ; but there is one loose sentiment in 
it, which my much-valued friend Mr.Erskine will 
take into his critical consideration. In Sir John 
Sinclair's statistical volumes, are two claims — 
one, I think from Aberdeenshire, and the other 
from Ayrshire — for the honour of this song. 
The following anecdote, which I had from the 
present Sir William Cunningham of Robertland, 
who had it of the late John, Earl of Loudon, I 
can, on such authorities, believe : — 

Allan Ramsay was residing at Loudon-castle 
with the then Earl, father to Earl John ; and 
one forenoon, riding, or walking, out together, 
his lordship and Allan passed a sweet romantic 
ypot on Irvine water, still called " Patie's mill," 
where a bonnie lass was " tedding hay, bare- 
headed on the green." My lord observed to 
Allan, that it would be a fine theme for a song. 
Ramsay took the hint, and, lingering behind, he 
composed the first sketch of it, which he pro- 
duced at dinner. 

" One day I heard Mary say," 1 is a fine song ; 
but, for consistency's sake, alter the name 
" Adonis." "Were there ever such banns pub- 
lished, as a purpose of marriage between Adonis 
and Mary ! I agree with you that my song, 
" There's nought but care on every hand," is 
much superior to "Poortith cauld." The original 
song, " The mill, mill, O !" 2 though excellent, is, 
on account of delicacy, inadmissible ; still I like 
the title, and think a Scottish song would suit 
the notes best ; and let your chosen song, which 
is very pretty, follow as an English set. " The 
Banks of the Dee" is, you know, literally " Lan- 
g"olee," to slow time. The song is well enough, 
but has some false imagery in it : for instance, 

" And sweetly the nightingale sang from the tree." 

In the first place, the nightingale sings in a low 
bush, but never from a tree ; and in the second 
place, there never was a nightingale seen or 
heard on the banks of the Dee, or on the banks 
of any other river in Scotland. Exotic rural 
imagery is always comparatively flat. 3 If I 
could hit on another stanza, equal to "The 
small bird's rejoice," &c, I do myself honestly 
avow, that I think it a superior song. 4 "John 
Anderson, my jo" — the song to this tune in 
Johnson's Museum, is my composition, and I 
think it not my worst : 5 if it suit you, take it, 
and welcome. Your collection of sentimental 
and pathetic songs, is, in my opinion, very com- 
plete; but not so your comic ones. Where are 
" T ullochgorum," " Lumps o' puddin," " Tibbie 
Fowler," and several others, which, in my hum- 



» By Crawfurd. » By Ramsay. 

3 Theauthor, John Tait, a writer to the si :; rut and: some time Judgf 
qf 'he police-court in Kdinburgh, assented to this, and altered the 
line to, 

" .A.jri sweetly toe woud-pigeoo cooed from the tiee.* 
4 Song (J X X X 1 X. 6 Son- LX >. \ . 



ble judgment, are well worthy of preservation ? 
There is also one sentimental song of mine in the 
Museum, which never was known out of the im- 
mediate neighbourhood, until I got it taken 
down from a country girl's singing. It is called 
" Cragieburn wood," and, in the opinion of Mr. 
Clarke, is one of the sweetest Scottish songs. 
He is quite an enthusiast about it ; and I would 
take his taste in Scottish music against the taste 
of most connoisseurs. 

You are quite right in inserting the last five 
in your list, though they are certainly Irish. 
" Shepherds, I have lost my love !" is to me a 
heavenly air — what would you think of a set of 
Scottish verses to it ? I have made one to it, a 
good while ago, which I think * * *, but in its 
original state it is not quite a lady's song. I 
enclose an altered, not amended copy for you, 1 
if you choose to set the tune to it, and let the 
Irish verses follow. 

Mr. Erskine's songs are all pretty, but his 
" Lone vale" 2 is divine. 

Yours, &c. 

R. B. 

Let me know just how you like these random 

hints. 



CCLITI. 
2To 0Lx. tiTijomgoii 



[The letter to which this is in part an answer, Currie says, con- 
tains many observations on Scottish songs, and on the manner of 
adapting the words to the music, which at Mr. Thomson's desire arc 
suppressed.] 

April, 1793. 

I have yours, my dear Sir, this moment. I 
shall answer it and your former letter, in my 
desultory way of saying whatever comes upper- 
most. 

The business of many of our tunes wanting, 
at the beginning, what fiddlers call a starting- 
note, is often a rub to us poor rhymers. 

" There's braw, braw lads on Yarrow braes, 
That wander through the blooming heather," 

you may alter to 

" Braw, braw lads on Yarrow braes, 
Ye wander," &c. 

My song, " Here awa, there awa," as amended 
by Mr.Erskine, I entirely approve of, and return 
you. 



■ sowgCLXXVII. 

' How sweet this lone vale, and how soothing to feel; if 

Von niphtiiiKRle's :..">ics w'hvh in melody meet." 
song has found its w.;y into wo al collet-dons, 



OF ROBERT BCjRNS. 



W7 



Give me leave to criticise your taste in the only 
thing in which it is in my opinion, reprehensible. 
You know I ought to know something of my 
own trade;. Of pathos, sentiment, and point, 
you are a complete judge; but there is a quality 
more necessary than either in a song, and which 
is the very essence of a ballad — I mean simpli- 
city : now, if I mistake not, this last feature 
you are a little apt to sacrifice to the forego- 
ing. 

Ramsay, as every other poet, has not been 
always equally happy in his pieces ; still I cannot 
approve of taking such liberties with an author 
as Mr. "Walker proposes doing with " The last 
time I came o'er the moor.* - ' Let a poet, if lie 
ohoose, take up the idea of another, and work it 
into a piece of his own; but to mangle the 
works of the poor bard, whose tuneful tongue is 
now mute for ever, in the dark and narroAv 
house — by Heaven, 'twould be sacrilege ! I 
grant that Mr. W.'s version is an improvement ; 
but I know Mr. W. well, and esteem him much; 
let him mend the song, as the Highlander mended 
Uis gun — he gave it a new stock, a new lock, 
and a new barrel. 

I do not, by this object to leaving out improper 
stanzas, where that can be done without spoil- 
ing the whole. One stanza in " The lass o' 
Patie's mill" must be left out : the song will be 
nothing worse for it. I am not sure if we can 
take the same liberty with " Corn rigs are bon- 
nie." Perhaps it might want the last stanza, and 
be the better for it. " Cauld kail in Aberdeen," 
you must leave with me yet awhile. I have 
vowed to have a song to that air, on the lady 
whom I attempted to celebrate in the verses, 
'Poortith cauld and restless love." At any rate, my 
other song, " Green grow the rashes," will never 
suit. That song is current in Scotland under 
the old title, and to the merry old tune of that 
name, which, of course, would mar the progress 
of your song to celebrity. Your book will be 
the standard of Scots songs for the future : let 
this idea ever keep your judgment on the 
alarm. 

I send a song on a celebrated toast in this 
country, to suit " Bonnie Dundee." I send you 
also a ballad to the " Mill, mill, O !" ! 

" The last time I came o'er the moor," I would 
fain attempt to make a Scots song for, and let 
Ramsay's be the Euglish set. You shall hear 
from me soon. When you go to London on this 
business, can you come by Dumfries ? I have 
still several MS. Scots airs by me, which I have 
picked up, mostly from the singing of country 
lasses. They please me vastly ; but your learned 
lugs would perhaps be displeased with the very 
feature for which I like them. I call them simple ; 
you would pronounce them silly. Do you know 
a fine air called " Jackie Hume's Lament ?" I 
have a song of considerable merit to that air. 
I'll enclose you both the song and tune, as I had 



i .Songs CXCII. and CXCIIL 



them ready to send to Johnson's Museum. 1 I 
send you likewise, to me, a beautiful little air, 
which I had taken down from viva voce* 
Adieu. 

n.u. 



CCLIV. 
GTo 0Lx. 'Thomson 



[Thomson,, it would appear by his answer to this icttei, waa at 

issue with Hums on the subject matter of simplicity : the furn.jr 
seems to have desired a sort of diplomatic and varnished style: '.\te 
latter felt that elegance and simplicity were " sisters twin." J 

April, 1793. 
My dear Sir, 
I had scarcely put my last letter into the post- 
office, when I took up the subject of " The last 
time I come o'er the moor," and ere I slept drew 
the outlines of the foregoing. 3 How I have suc- 
ceeded, I leave on this, as on every other occa- 
sion, to you to decide. I own my vanity is flat- 
tered, when you give my songs a place in your 
elegant and superb work; but to be of service to 
the work is my first wish. As I have often told 
you, I do not in a single instance wish you, out 
of compliment to me, to insert anything of mine. 
One hint let me give you — whatever Mr. Pleyel 
does, let him not alter one iota of the original 
Scottish airs, I mean in the song department, 
but let our national music preserve its native 
features. They are, I own, frequently wild and 
irreducible to the more modern rules ; but on 
that very eccentricity, perhaps, depends a great 
part of their effect. 

R.B. 



CCLV. 

SoI)u Jfrancig ?E*:sfeinc, 1~*q 



[This remarkable letter has been of late the subject of some con- 
troversy : Mr. Findlater, who happened then to be in the Excise, is 
vehement in defence of the " honourable board," and is certain that 
Burns has misrepresented the conduct of his very generous masters. 
In answer to this it has been urged that the word of the poet has in 
no other thing been questioned : that in the last moments of his life, 
he solemnly wrote this letter into his memorandum-book, and that 
the reproof of Mr. Corbet, is given by him either as a quotation 
from a paper or an exact recollection of the words used : the expres- 
sions, " not to think" an d be "silent and obedien f" are underlined.] 



Sir, 



Dumfries, \?>ih April, 1733. 



Degenerate as human nature is said to be 
and in many instances, -worthless and unprincl 



' Sons UXCIV. 2 song CXCV1IL 

8 Song ICX XXIV. 



358 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



plod It is, still there are bright examples to the 
contrary; examples that even in the eyes of su- 
perior beings, must shed a lustre on the name of 
man. 

Such an example have I now before me, when 
you, Sir, came forward to patronize and befriend 
a distant, obscure stranger, merely because po- 
verty had made him helpless, and his British 
hardihood of mind had provoked the arbitrary 
wantonness of power. My much esteemed friend, 
Mr. Riddel of Glenriddel, has just read me a 
paragraph of a letter he had from you. Ac- 
cept, Sir, of the silent throb of gratitude; for 
words would but mock the emotions of my 
soul. 

You have been misinformed as to ray final 
dismission from the Excise; I am still in the 
service. — Indeed but for the exertions of a gen- 
tleman who must be known to you, Mr. Graham 
of Fintry, a gentleman who has ever been my 
warm and generous friend, I had, without so 
much as a hearing, or the slightest previous in- 
timation, been turned adrift, with my helpless 
family, to all the horrors of want. Had I had 
any other resource, probably I might have saved 
them the trouble of a dismission ; but the little 
money I gained by my publication, is almost 
every guinea embarked, to save from ruin an 
only brother, who, though one of the worthiest, 
is by no means one of the most fortunate of 
men. 

In my defence to their accusations, I said, that 
whatever might be my sentiments of republics, 
ancient or modern, as to Britain, I abjured the 
idea ! — That a constitution, which, in its 
original principles, experience had proved to be 
every way fitted for our happiness in society, it 
would be insanity to sacrifice to an untried 
visionary theory : — that, in consideration of my 
being situated in a department, however humble, 
immediately in the hands of people in power, 
I had forborne taking any active part, either 
personally, or as an author, in the present busi- 
ness of Reform - . But, that, where I must de- 
clare my sentiments, I would say there existed 
a system of corruption between the executive 
power and the representative part of the legisla- 
ture, which boded no good to our glorious con- 
stitution; and which every patriotic Briton 
must wish to see amended. — Some such senti- 
ments as these, I stated in a letter to my gene- 
rous patron, Mr. Graham, which he laid before the 
Board at large; where, it seems, my last remark 
gave great offence; and one of our supervisors- 
general, a Mr. Corbet, was instructed to inquire 
on the spot, and to document me — " that my 
business was to act, not to think ; and that what- 
ever might be men or measures, it was for me to 
be silent and obedietit." 

Mr. Corbet was likewise my steady friend; 
so between Mr. Graham and him, I have been 
partly forgiven ; only I understand that all 
hopes of my getting officially forward, are 
blasted. 

Now, Sir, to the business in which I would 



more immediately interest you, The partial] tj 
of my countrymen has brought me forward as 
a man of genius, and has given me a character 
to support. In the Poet I have avowed manly 
and independent sentiments, which I trust will 
be found in the man. Reasons of no less weight 
than the support of a wife and family, have pointed 
out as the eligible, and situated as I was, the 
only eligible line of life for me, my present oc- 
cupation. Still my honest fame is my dearest 
concern ; and a thousand times have I trembled 
at the idea of those degrading epithets that 
malice or misrepresentation may affix to my 
name. I have often, in blasting anticipation, 
listened to some future hackney scribbler, with 
the heavy malice of savage stupidity, exulting in 
his hireling paragraphs — " Burns, notwithstand- 
ing the fanfaronade of independence to be found 
in his works, and after having been held forth 
to public view and to public estimation as a man 
of some genius, yet quite destitute of resources 
within himself to support his borrowed dignity, 
he dwindled into a paltry exciseman, and slunk 
out the rest of his insignificant existence in the 
meanest of pursuits, and among the vilest of 
mankind. ,; 

In your illustrious hands, Sir, permit me to 
lodge my disavowal and defiance of these slan- 
derous falsehoods. Burns was a poor man 
from birth, and an exciseman by necessity: but 
I will say it ! the sterling of his honest worth, 
no poverty could debase, and his independent 
British mind, oppression might bend, but could 
not subdue. Have not I, to me, a more precious 
stake in my country's welfare than the richest, 
dukedom in it ? — I have a large family of chil- 
dren, and the prospect of many more. I have 
three sons, who, I see already, have brought 
into the world souls ill qualified to inhabit 
the bodies of slaves. — Can I look tamely on, 
and see any machination to wrest from them the 
birthright of my boys, — the little independent 
Britons, in whose veins runs my own blood ?-- 
No ! I will not ! should my heart's blood stream 
around my attempt to defend it ! 

Does any man tell me, that my full efforts 
can be of no service ; and that it does not be- 
long to my humble station to meddle with the 
concern of a nation ? 

I can tell him, that it is on such individuals 
as I, that a nation has to rest, both for the 
hand of support, and the eye of intelligence. 
The uninformed mob may swell a nation's bulk ; 
and the titled, tinsel, courtly throng, may be its 
feathered ornament ; but the number of those 
who are elevated enough in life to reason and to 
reflect ; yet low enough to keep clear of the 
venal contagion of a court! — these are a nation's 
strength. 

I know not how to apologize for the imperti- 
nent length of this epistle; but one small request 
I must ask of you further — when you have 
honoured this letter with a perusal, please to 
commit it to the flames. Burns, in whose be- 
half you have so generously interested yourself. 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



350 



I have here in his native colours drawn as he is ; 
but should any of the people in whose hands is 
the very bread he eats, get the least knowledge 
of the picture, it would ruin the poor bard for 
ever ! 

My poems having just come out in another 
edition, I beg leave to present you with a copy, 
as a small mark of that high esteem and ardent 
gratitude, with which I have the honour to be, 

Your deeply indebted, 

And ever devoted humble servant, 
R. B. 



CCLVI. 



[«« Up tails a', by the light o' the moon," was the name of a Scottish 
air, to which the devil danced with the witches of Fife, on Magus 
Moor, as reported by a warlock, in that credible work, " Satan's Ie- 
visible World discovered."] 

April, 26, 1793. 
I am d-mnably out of humour, my dear Ains- 
lie, and that is the reason, why I take up the 
pen to you : 'tis the nearest way (probatum est) 
to recover my spirits again. 

I received your last, and was much entertained 
with it ; but I will not at this time, nor at any 
other time, answer it. — Answer a letter ? I 
never could answer a letter in my life ! — I have 
written many a letter in return for letters I 
have received; but then — they were original 
matter — spurt-away ! zig here, zag there ; as 
if the devil that, my Grannie (an old woman 
indeed) often told me, rode on will-o'-wisp, or 
in her more classic phrase, Spunkie, were look- 
ing over my elbow. — Happy thought that idea 
has engendered in my head ! Spunkie — thou 
shalt henceforth be my symbol signature, and 
tutelary genius ! Like thee, hap-step-and-lowp, 
here-awa-there-awa, higglety-pigglety, pell-mell, 
hither- an d-yon, ram-stam, happy-go-lucky, up- 
tails-a'-by-the light-o' the moon; has been, is, 
and shall be, my progress through the mosses 
and moors of this vile, bleak, barren wilderness 
of a life of ours. 

Come then, my guardian spirit, like thee, may 
I skip away, amusing myself by and at my own 
light : and. if any opaque-souled lubber of man- 
kind complain that my elfine, lambent, glim- 
merous wanderings have misled his stupid steps 
over precipices, or into bogs, let the thick- 
headed blunderbuss recollect, that he is not 
Spunkie : — that 



" Spunkie's wanderingicould not copied be: 
Amid these perils none durst walk but he."— 



I have no doubt but scholarcraft may be 
caught, as a Scotchman catches the itch, — by 
friction. How else can you account for it, that 



born blockheads, by mere dint of liandling books, 
giow so wise that even they themselves are equally 
convinced of and surprised at their own parts ? I 
once carried this philosophy to that degree t hat 
in a knot of country folks who had a libra) y 
amongst them, and avIio, to the honour of their 
good sense, made me factotum in the business ; 
one of our members, a little, wise-looking, squat, 
upright, jabbering body of a tailor, I advised him, 
instead of turning over the leaves, to bind the 
book on his back. — Johnnie took the hint ; and as 
our meetings were every fourth Saturday, and 
Pricklouse having a good Scots mile to walk in 
coming, and of course another in returning, 
Bodkin was sure to lay his hand on some heavy 
quarto, or ponderous folio, with, and under 
which, wrapt up in his grey plaid, he grew wise, 
as he grew weary, all the way home. He car- 
ried this so far, that an old musty Hebrew con- 
cordance, which we had in a present from a 
neighbouring priest, by mere dint of applying it, 
as doctors do a blistering plaster, between his 
shoulders, Stitch, in a dozen pilgrimages, ac- 
quired as much rational theology as the said 
priest had done by forty years perusal of the 



Tell me, and tell me truly, what you think of 
this theory. 

Yours, 

Spunkie. 



CCLVII. 



[Miss Kennedy was one of that numerous band of ladies who pa- 
tronized the poet in Edinburgh ; she was related to the Hamiltons of 
Mossgiel.] 

Madam, 

Permit me to present you with the enclosed 
song as a small though grateful tribute for the 
honour of your acquaintance. I have, in these 
verses, attempted some faint sketches of your 
portrait in the unembellished simple manner of 
descriptive truth. — Flattery, I leave to your 
lovers, whose exaggerating fancies may make 
them imagine you still nearer perfection than 
you really are. 

Poets, Madam, of all mankind, feelmost forcibly 
the powers of beauty; as, if they are really 
poets of nature's making, their feelings must 
be finer, and their taste more delicate than most 
of the world. In the cheerful bloom of spring, 
or the pensive mildness of autumn ; the gran- 
deur of summer, or the hoary majesty of 
winter, the poet feels a charm unknown to 
the rest of his species. Even the sight of a fine 
flower, or the company of a fine woman (by far 
the finest part of God's works below) have sen- 
sations for the poetic heart that the herd of 
man are strangers to. — On this last account, 
Madam, I am, as in many other things, in- 



360 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



debted to Mr. Hamilton's kindness in intro- 
ducing ?ne to yen. Your lovers may view you 
with a wish, I look on you with pleasure ; their 
hearts, in your presence, may glow with desire, 
mine rises with admiration. 

That the arrows of misfortune, however they 
should, as incident to humanity, glance a slight 
wound, may never reach your heart — that the 
snares of villany may never beset you in the road 
of life — that innocence may hand you by the 
path of honour to the dwelling of peace, is 
the sincere wish of him who has the honour to 
be, &c. 

R. B. 



CCLVIIT. 



[The name of the friend who fell a sacrifice to those changeable 
times, has not been mentioned, it is believed he was of the west 
country.] 

June, 1793. 

When I tell you, my dear Sir, that a friend 
of mine, in whom I am much interested, has 
fallen a sacrifice to these accursed times, you 
will easily allow that it might unhinge me for 
doing any good among ballads. My own loss as 
to pecuniary matters is trifling; but the total ruin 
of a much-loved friend is a loss indeed. Par- 
don my seeming inattention to your last com- 
mands. 

I cannot alter the disputed lines in the " Mill, 
Mill, O I" 1 What you think a defect, I esteem 
as a positive beauty ; so you see how doctors 
differ. I shall now, with as much alacrity as I 
can muster, go on with your commands. 

You know Frazer, the hautboy-player in Edin- 
burgh—he is here, instructing a band of music 
for a fencible corps quartered in this county. 
Among many of his airs that please me, there 
is one, well known as a reel, by the name of 
" The Quaker's Wife ;" and which, I remember, 
a grand-aunt of mine used to sing, by the name 
of" Liggeram Cosh, my bonnie wee lass." Mr. 
Frazer plays it slow, and with an expression that 
quite charms me. I became such an enthusiast 
about it, that I made a song for it, which I here 
subjoin, and enclose Frazer's set of the tune. If 



1 " The lines were the third and fourth : — 

' Wi' mony a sweet babe fatherless, 
And mony a widow mourning.' 

As our poet bad maintained a long silence, and the first numba of 
M r. Thomson's musical work was in the press, this gentleman ven- 
tured, by Mr. Erskine's advice, to substitute for them, in that publi- 



' And eyes again with pleasure beam'd 
That had been bleared with mourning. 



1 liougn better suited 
original."— Cvrrie. 



) the music, these lines are Inferior to the 



they hit your fancy, they are at you service; if 
not, return me the tune, and I will put it in 
Johnson's Museum. I think the song is not in 
mv worst manner. ' 

Blythe hae I been on yon hill, 1 

I should wish to hear how this pleases you. 

R.B. 



CCLIX. 

^0 J&r. tO^omson. 



[Against the mighty oppressors of the earth the poet was evtr 
ready to set the sharpest shafts of his wrath : the times in which he 
wrote were sadly out of sorts.] 

June 25th } 1793. 
Have you ever, my dear Sir, felt your bosom 
ready to burst with indignation, on reading 
of those mighty villains who divide kingdoms, 
desolate provinces, and lay nations waste, out 
of the wantonness of ambition, or often from 
still more ignoble passions ? In a mood of this 
kind to-day I recollected the air of " Logan 
Water," and it occurred to me that its queru- 
lous melody probably had its origin from the 
plaintive indignation of some swelling, suffering 
heart, fired at the tyrannic strides of some 
public destroyer, and overwhelmed with pri-. 
vate distress, the consequence of a country's 
ruin. If I have done anything at all like jus- 
tice to my feelings, the following song, com- 
posed in three-quarters of an hour's meditation 
in my elbow-chair, ought to have some merit . — 

O Logan, sweetly didst thou glide. 2 

Do you know the following beautiful little 
fragment, in Wotherspoon's collection of Scots 
songs ? 3 

Air — u Hughie Graham.'*'' 
" Oh gin my love were yon red rose, 
That grows upon the castle wa' ; 
And I mysel' a drap o' dew, 
Into her bonnie breast to fa' ! 

" Oh there, beyond expression blest, 
I'd feast on beauty a' the night, 
Seal'd on her silk-saft faulds to rest, 
Till fley'd awa by Phoebus light!" 

This thought is inexpressibly beautiful ; and 
quite, so far as I know, original. It is too short 
for a song, else I would forswear you altogether, 
unless you gave it a place. I have often tried 
to eke a stanza to it, but in vain. After ba- 
lancing myself for a musing five minutes, on the 



» Song CXV. » SongCXCVI. 

! Bettter known as Herd's. Wbthcrspoon was on< of the n*»bll»b. 



OF ROB RUT BURNS 



361 



hind legs of my elbow-chair, I produced the fol- 
lowing. 

The verses are far inferior to the foregoing, I 
frankly confess : but if worthy of insertion at 
all, they might be first in place ; as every poet 
who knows anything of his trade, will husband 
his best thoughts for a concluding stroke. 

Oh were my love yon lilac fair, 

Wi' purple blossoms to the spring ; 

And I a bird to shelter there, 

When wearied on my little wing ! 

How I wad mourn, when it was torn, 
By autumn wild and winter rude ! 

But I wad sing on wanton wing, 

When youthfu' May its bloom renewed. ' 

R.B. 



CCLX. 



[Thomson, in his reply to the preceding letter, laments that any 
thing should untune the feelings of the poet, and begs his acceptance 
of five pounds, as a small mark of his gratitude for his beautiful 
songs.] 

July 2nd, 1793. 
My dear Sir, 
I have just finished the following ballad, and, 
as I do think it in my best style, I send it you. 
Mr. Clarke, who wrote down the air from Mrs. 
Burns's wood-note wild, is very fond of it, and 
has given it a celebrity by teaching it to some 
young ladies of the first fashion here. If you 
do not like the air enough to give it a place in 
your collection, please return it. The song you 
may keep, as I remember it. 

There was a lass, and she was fair. 2 

I have some thoughts of inserting in your in- 
dex, or in my notes, the names of the fair ones, 
the themes of my songs. I do not mean the 
name at full ; but dashes or asterisms, so as in- 
genuity may find them out. 

The heroine of the foregoing is Miss M'Murdo, 
daughter to Mr. M'Murdo, of Drumlanrig, one 
of your subscribers. I have not painted her in 
the rank which she holds in life, but in the dress 
and character of a cottager. 

R. B. 



1 Sep Song CXC VII. 



2 Song CXCVI1I. 



ccLxr. 

€0 iJWr. Thomson. 



[Burns in this letter speaks of the pecuniary proei t iv.iich TfutOh 
son sent him, in a lofty and angry mood : he who publish ed poems hy 
subscription might surely have accepted, without any irnpropritt 
payment for his sor.gs.] . 



July, 1703. 

I assure you, my dear Sir, that you tr 
hurt me with your pecuniary parcel. It de- 
grades me in my own eyes. However, to return 
it would savour of affectation ; but, as to any 
more traffic of that debtor and creditor kind, I 
swear by that honour which crowns the upright 
statue of Robert Burns's Integrity — on the 
least motion of it, I will indignantly spurn the 
bypast transaction, and from that moment com- 
mence entire stranger to you ! Burns's charac- 
ter for generosity of sentiment and independence 
of mind, will, I trust, long outlive any of his 
wants which the cold unfeeling ore can supply ; 
at least, I will take care that such a character he 
shall deserve. 

Thank you for my copy of your publication. 
Never did my eyes behold in any musical work- 
such elegance and correctness. Your preface, 
too, is admirably written, only your partiality to 
me has made you say too much : however, it will 
bind me down to double every effort in the 
future progress of the work. The following are 
a few remarks on the songs in the list you sent 
me. I never copy what I write to you, so I 
may be often tautological, or perhaps contradic- 
tory. 

" The Flowers o' the Forest," is charming as 
a poem, and should be, and must be, set to the 
notes ; but, though out of your rule, the three 
stanzas beginning, 

" I've seen the smiling of fortune beguiling, 

are worthy of a place, were it but to immortalise 
the author of them, who is an old lady of my ac- 
quaintance, and at this moment living in Edin- 
burgh. She is a Mrs. Cockburn, I forget of what 
place, but from Roxburghshire . l What a charm- 
ing apostrophe is 

" Oh fickle fortune, why this cruel sporting, 
Why thus perplex us, poor sons of a day ?" 

The old ballad, " I wish I were where Helen 
lies," is silly to contemptibility. My alteration 
of it, in Johnson's, is not much better. Mr. 
Pinkerton, in his, what he calls, ancient ballads, 
(many of them notorious, though beautiful 
enough, forgeries,) has the best set. It is full 
of his own interpolations — but no matter. 

In my next I will suggest to your considera- 
tion a few songs which may have escaped your 
hurried notice. In the meantime allow me to 



J Miss Rutherford, of Fernilee in Selkirkshire, by marriage Mrs 
Patrick Cockburn, of Ormiston. She died in 1794, at an advanced 
nee 



M c > 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



congratulate you now, as a brother of the quill. 
You iiave committed your character and fame, 
which will now be tried, for ages to come, by 
the illustrious jury of the Sons and Daughters 
of Taste — all whom poesy can please or music 
charm. 

Being a bard of nature, I have some preten- 
sions to second sight ; and I am warranted by 
the spirit to foretell and affirm, that your great- 
grand-child will hold up your volumes, and say, 
with honest pride, " This so much admired se- 
lection was the work of my ancestor !" 

R. B. 



CCLXII. 



[Stephen Clarke, whose name is at this strange note, was a musician 
and composer; he was a clever man, and had a high opinion of his 
own powers.] 

August, 1793. 
My dear Thomson, 

I hold the pen for our friend Clarke, who at 
present is studying the music of the spheres at 
my elbow. The Georgium Sidus he thinks is 
rather out of tune ; so, until he rectify that 
matter, he cannot stoop to terrestrial affairs. 

He sends you six of the rondeau subjects, and 
if more are wanted, he says you shall have 
them. 



Confound your long stairs ! 



S. Clarke. 



CCLXII1. 
3To Jttr. Thomson. 



[«' Phillis the Fait" endured much at the hands of both Burns and 
Clarke. The young lady had reason to complain, when the poet vo- 
lunteered to sing the imaginary love of that fantastic fiddler.] 



August, 1793. 

Your objection, my dear Sir, to the passages 
in my song of "Logan Water," is right in one 
instance ; but it is difficult to mend it : if I can, 
I will. The other passage you object to does 
not appear in the same light to me. 

I have tried my hand on " Robin Adair," and, 
you will probably think, with little success ; but 
it is such a cursed, cramp, out-of-the-way mea- 
sure, that I despair of doing any thing better to 
it. 

While larks with little wing. 1 



So much for namby-pamby. I may, after ali, 
try my hand on it in Scots verse. There I al- 
ways find myself most at home. 

I have just put the last hand to the song I 
meant for " Cauld kail in Aberdeen." If it suita 
you to insert it, I shall be pleased, as the heroine 
is a favourite of mine ; if not, I shall also be 
pleased ; because I wish, and will be glad, to see 
you act decidedly on the business. 'Tis a tribute 
as a man of taste, and as an editor, which you 
owe yourself. 

R. B, 



CCLXIV. 
^0 ffllx. ^fjomgom 



[The infusion of Highland airs and north country subjects ato the 
music and songs of Scotland, has invigorated both : Burns, who had 
a fine ear as well as a fine taste, was familiar with all, either High- 
land or Lowland.] 



August, 1793. 
That crinkum-crankum tune, "Robin Adair," 
has run so in my head, and I succeeded so ill in 
my last attempt, that I have ventured, in this 
morning's walk^ one essay more. You, my dear 
Sir, will remember an unfortunate pxrt of our 
worthy friend Cunningham's story, which hap- 
pened about three years ago. That struck my 
fancy, and I endeavoured to do the idea justice 
as follows : 

Had I a cave on some wild distant shore. 1 

By the way, I have met with a musical High- 
lander in Breadalbane's Fencibles, which are 
quartered here, who assures me that he well re- 
members his mother singing Gaelic songs to both 
" Robin Adair," and " Grammachree." They 
certainly have more of the Scotch than Irish 
taste in them. 

This man comes from the vicinity of Inver- 
ness : so it could not be any intercourse with 
Ireland that could bring them ; except, what I 
shrewdly suspect to be the case, the wandering 
minstrels, harpers, and pipers, used to go fre- 
quently errant through the wilds both of Scot- 
land and Ireland, and so some favourite airs 
might be common to both. A case in point — 
they have lately, in Ireland, published an Irish 
air, as they say, called " Caun du delish." The 
fact is, in a publication of Corri's, a great while 
ago, you will find the same air, called a Highland 
one, with a Gaelic song set to it. Its name 
there, I think, is " Oran Gaoil," and a fine air it 
is. Do ask honest Allan or the Rev. Gaelic 
parson, about these matters. 

R.B. 



OF ROBl.RT BURNS. 



3(33 



CCLXV 



fWlille Burns composed songs, Thomson got some of the happiest 
embodied by David Allan, the painter, whose illustrations of the 
gentle Shepherd had been favourably re cived. But save when an 
old man was admitted to the scene, his designs may be regarded as 
failures: his maidens werecoarseand hfe»,ld wives rigwiddiecarlins.] 



August, 1793. 
My dear Sir, 

" Let me in this ae night" I will reconsider. 
I am glad that you are pleased with my song, 
" Had I a cave," &c, as I liked it myself. 

I walked out yesterday evening with a volume 
of the Museum in my hand, when, turning up 
" ADan Water," " What numbers shall the muse 
repeat," &c, as the words appeared to me rather 
unworthy of so fine an air, and recollecting that 
it is on your list, I sat and raved under the shade 
of an old thorn, till I wrote one to suit the mea- 
sure. I may be wrong ; but I think it not in 
my worst style. You must know, that in Ram- 
say's Tea-table, where the modern song first ap- 
peared, the ancient name of the tune, Allan says, 
is " Allan Water," or " My love Annie's very 
bonnie." This last has certainly been a line of 
the original song ; so I took up the idea, and, as 
you will see, have introduced the line in its place, 
which I presume it formerly occupied ; though 
I likewise give you a choosing line, if it should 
not hit the cut of your fancy : 

By Allan stream I chanced to rove. 1 

Bravo ! say I ; it is a good song. Should you 
think so too (not else) you can set the music to 
it, and let the other follow as English verses. 

Autumn is my propitious season. I make 
more verses in it than all the year else. God 
bless you ! 

B. B. 



CCLXVI. 
€0 ffllx. Thomson. 



[Phillis, or Philadelphia M'Murdo, in whose honour Burns com- 
posed the song beginning " Adown winding Nith I did wander," 
and several others, died September 5th, 1825.J 



August, 1793. 
Is " Whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad," 
one of your airs ? I admire it much ; and yes- 
terday I set the following verses to it. Urbani, 
whom I have met with here, begged them of me, 
as he admires the air much ; but as I understand 
that he looks with rather an evil eye on your 
work, I did not choose to comply. However, if 

'Song CO. 



the song does not suit your taste I may possibly 
send it him. The set of the air which I had in 
my eye is in Johnson's Museum. 

O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad. 1 

Another favourite air of mine is, "The muck in' 
o' Geordie's byre." When sung slow with ex- 
pression, I have wished that it had had better 
poetry; that I have endeavoured to supply as 
follows : 

Adown winding Nith I did wander.* 

Mr. Clarke begs you to give Miss Phillis a 
corner in your book, as she is a particular flame 
of his, and out of compliment to him I have 
made the song. She is a Miss Phillis M'Murdo, 
sister to " Bonnie Jean." They are botli pupils 
of his. You shall hear from me, the very first 
grist I get from my rhyming-mill. 

R. B. 



CCLXVII. 
€0 0lx. ^fjomgon. 



[Burns was fond of expressive words : " Gloaming, the twilight, 
says Currie, "is a beautiful poetic word, which ought to be adopted 
in England." Burns and Scott have made the Scottish language 
popular over the world.l 



August, 1793. 
That tune, " Cauld kail," is such a favourite 
of yours, that I once more roved out yesterday 
for a gloamin-shot at the muses ; when the muse 
that presides o'er the shores of Nith, or rather 
my old inspiring dearest nymph, Coila, whis- 
pered me the following. I have two reasons for 
thinking that it was my early, sweet simple in- 
spirer that was by my elbow, " smooth gliding 
without step," and pouring the song on my 
glowing fancy. In the first place since I left 
Coila' s native haunts, not a fragment of a poet 
has arisen to cheer her solitary musings, by 
catching inspiration from her, so I more than 
suspect that she has followed me hither, or, at 
least, makes me occasional visits ; secondly, the 
last stanza of this song I send you, is the very 
words that Coila taught me many years ago, and 
which I set to an old Scots reel in Johnson's 
Museum. 

Come, let me take thee to my breast. 3 

If you think the above will suit your idea of 
your favourite air, I shall be highly pleased. 
" The last time I came o'er the moor" I cannot 
meddle with, as to mending it ; and the musical 
world have been so long accustomed to Bamsay's 

1 Song CCII. 2 Song OCli I. rf Song CC1V. 



M)4 



GENKllAL CORRESPONDENCE 



words, that a different song, though positively 
superior, would not be so well received. I am 
not fond of ciioruses to songs, so I have not made 
one for the foregoing. 

KB 



CCLXVIJI. 

3To 0Lx. 'ft&omsson. 



j "Cauld kail in Aberdeen, and castocks in Strabogie," are words 
which have no connexion with the sentiment of the song which 
Burns wrote for the air. ] 



Song. 



August, 1793. 



Now rosy May comes in wi' flowers. 1 

So much for Davie. The chorus, you know, is 
to the low part of the tune. See Clarke's set of 
it in the Museum. 

N. B. In the Museum they have drawled out 

the tune to twelve lines of poetry, which is 

nonsense. Four lines of song, and four of chorus, 
is the way. 2 



CCLXIX. 



[Miss Helen Craik, of Arbigland, had merit both as a poetess and 
novelist : her ballads may be compared with those of Hector M'Keil : 
r.er novels had a seaso-.ing of satire in them.] 



Dumfries, August, 1793. 
Madam, 

Some rather unlooked-for accidents have pre- 
vented my doing myself the honour of a second 
visit to Arbigland, as I was so hospitably in- 
vited, and so positively meant to have done. — 
However, I still hope to have that pleasure be- 
fore the busy months of harvest begin. 

I enclose you two of my late pieces, as some 
kind of return for the pleasure I have received 
in perusing a certain MS. volume of poems in 
the possession of Captain Riddel. To repay one 
with an old song, is a proverb, whose force, you, 
Madam, I know, will not allow. What is said 
of illustrious descent is, I believe, equally true 
of a talent for poetry, none ever despised it who 
had pretensious to it. The fates and characters 
of the rhyming tribe often employ my thoughts 
when I am disposed to be melancholy. There 
is not, among all the martyrologies that ever 
were penned, so rueful a narrative as the lives of 
the poets. — In the comparative view of wretches, 
the criterion is not what they are doomed to 



J SaaeCCV 



a SooSongLXVlT. 



I 



suffer, but how they are formed to bear. Take 
a being of our kind, give him a stronger imagin- 
ation and a more delicate sensibility, which be- 
tween them will ever engender a more ungo- 
vernable set of passions than are the usual lot of 
man ; implant in him an irresistible impulse to 
some idle vagary, such as arranging wild flowers 
in fantastical nosegays, tracing the grasshopper 
to his haunt by his chirping song, watching the 
frisks of the little minnows in the sunny pool, or 
hunting after the intrigues of butterflies — ir 
short, send him adrift after some pursuit which 
shall eternally mislead him from the paths 
of lucre, and yet curse him with a keener relish 
than any man living for the pleasures that lucre 
can purchase ; lastly, fill up the measure of his 
woes by bestowing on him a spurning sense of 
his own dignity, and you have created a wight 
nearly as miserable as a poet. To you, Madam, 
I need not recount the fairy pleasures the muse 
bestows to counterbalance this catalogue of evils. 
Bewitching poetry is like bewitching woman ; 
she has in all ages been accused of misleading 
mankind from the councils of wisdom and the 
paths of prudence, involving them in difficulties, 
baiting them with poverty, branding them with 
infamy, and plunging them in the whirling vor- 
tex of ruin ; yet, where is the man but must own 
that all our happiness on earth is not worthy the 
name — that even the holy hermit's solitary pros- 
pect of paradisiacal bliss is but the glitter of a 
northern sun rising over a frozen region, com- 
pared with the many pleasures, the nameless 
raptures that we owe to the lovely queen of the 
heart of man ! 

R. B. 



CCLXX. 
^0 Eatig (SHencaitn. 



f Ruins, as the concluding paragraph of this letter proves, con 
tinued to the last years of his life to think of the composition of n 
Scottish drama, which Sir Walter Scott laments he did not write, in- 
stead of pouring out multitudes of lyrics for Johnson and Thomson.) 



My Lady, 

The honour you have done your poor poet, in 
writing him so very obliging a letter, and the 
pleasure the enclosed beautiful verses have given 
him, came very seasonably to his aid, amid the 
cheerless gloom and sinking despondency of dis- 
eased nerves and December weather. As to 
forgetting the family of Glencairn, Heaven is 
my witness with what sincerity I could use those 
old verses which please me more in their rude 
simplicity than the most elegant Hues I ever saw. 

" If thee, Jerusalem, 1 forget, 

Skill part from my right hand. 

My tongue to my mouth's roof let cleave, 

If I do thee forget, 
Jerusalem, and thee ahovc 

M y chief joy do not set."— 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



3(55 






When I am tempted to do any thing improper, 
I dare not, because I look on myself as account- 
able to your ladyship and family. Now and 
then, when I have the honour to be called to the 
tables of the great, if I happen to meet with any 
mortification from the stately stupidity of self- 
sufficient squires, or the luxurious insolence of 
upstart nabobs, I get above the creatures by 
calling to remembrance that I am patronised by 
the noble house of Glencairn ; and at gala-times, 
such as new-year's day, a christening, or the 
kirn-night, when my punch-bowl is brought from 
its dusty corner and filled up in honour of the 
occasion, I begin with, — The Countess of Glen- 
cairn! My good woman, with the enthusiasm 
of a grateful heart, next cries, My Lord ! and so 
the toast goes on until I end with Lady Harriet's 
little angel! whose epithalamium I have pledged 
myself to write. 

When I received your ladyship's letter, I was 
just in the act of transcribing for you some 
verses I have lately composed; and meant to 
have sent them my first leisure hour, and ac- 
quainted you with my late change of life. I 
mentioned to my lord my fears concerning my 
farm. Those fears were indeed too true ; it is 
a bargain would have ruined me but for the 
lucky circumstance of my having an excise com- 
mission. 

People may talk as they please, of the igno- 
miny of the excise ; 50/. a year will support my 
wife and children, and keep me independent of 
the world; and I would much rather have it 
said that my profession borrowed credit from 
me, than that I borrowed credit from my 
profession. Another advantage I have in this 
business, is the knowledge it gives me of the va- 
rious shades of human character, consequently 
assisting me vastly in my poetic pursuits. I had 
the most ardent enthusiasm for the muses when 
nobody knew me, but myself, and that ardour is 
by no means cooled now that my lord Glencairn's 
goodness has introduced me to all the world. 
Not that I am in haste for the press. I have no 
idea of publishing, else I certainly had consulted 
my noble generous patron ; but after acting the 
part of an honest man, and supporting my fa- 
mily, my whole wishes and views are directed to 
poetic pursuits. I am aware that though I were 
to give performances to the world superior to 
my former works, still if they were of the same 
kind with those, the comparative reception they 
would meet with would mortify me. I have 
turned my thoughts on the drama. I do not 
mean the stately buskin of the tragic muse. 

Does not your ladyship think that an Edin- 
burgh theatre would be more amused with affec- 
tation, folly, and whim of true Scottish growth, 
than manners which by far the greatest part 
of the audience can only know at second 
hand ? 

I have the honour to be, 

Your ladyship's ever devoted 
And grateful humble servant, 



CCLXXI. 
®o 0Lx. Thomson. 



[Peter Pindar, the name under which it was '.he pleasure of that 
bitter but vulgar satirist, Dr. Wolcot, to write, was a man of Utile 
lyrical talent He purchased a good annuity for the remaindci of Mi 
life, by the copyright of his works, and survived his popularity many 
years.] 

Sept. 1793. 

You may readily trust, my dear Sir, that any 
exertion in my power is heartily at your service. 
But one thing I must hint to you ; the wry 
name of Peter Pindar is of great service to your 
publication, so get a verse from him now and 
then ; though I have no objection, as well us I 
can, to bear the burden of the business. 

You know that my pretensions to musical taste 
are merely a few of nature's instincts, untaught 
and untutored by art. For this reason, many 
musical compositions, particularly where much 
of the merit lies in counterpoint, however they 
may transport and ravish the ears of your con- 
noisseurs, affect my simple lug no otherwise than 
merely as melodious din. On the other hand, 
byway of amends, I am delighted with many little 
melodies, which the learned musician despises 
as silly and insipid. I do not know whether the 
old air "Hey tuttie taitie," may rank among this 
number ; but well Iknow that, with Frazer's haut- 
boy, it has often filled my eyes with tears. There is 
a tradition, which I have met with in many places 
in Scotland, that it was Robert Bruce's march 
at the battle of Bannockburn. This thought, in 
yesternight's evening walk warmed me to a pitch 
of enthusiasm on the theme of liberty and inde- 
pendence, which I threw into a kind of Scottish 
ode, fitted to the air, that one might suppose to 
be the gallant Royal Scot's address to his heroic 
followers on the eventful morning. 

Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled. 1 

So may God ever defend the cause of truth 
and liberty, as he did that day ! Amen. 

P.S. I showed the air to Urbani, who was 
highly pleased with it, and begged me to make 
soft verses for it ; but I had no idea of giving 
myself any trouble on the subject, till the acci- 
dental recollection of that glorious struggle for 
freedom, associated with the glowing ideas of 
some other struggles of the same nature, not 
quite so ancient, roused my rhyming mania. 
Clarke's set of the tune, with his bass, you will 
find in the Museum, though I am afraid that 
the air is not what will entitle it to a place in 
your elegant selection. 

R.B. 



866 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



CCLXXII. 

STo 0Cx. ^fcomgon. 



(This letter contains further proof of the love of Burns for the airs 
of the Highlands.] 

Sept. 1793. 

I dare say, my dear Sir, that you will begin 
to think my correspondence is persecution. No 
matter, I can't help it ; a ballad is my hobby- 
horse, which, though otherwise a simple sort of 
harmless idiotical beast enough, has yet this 
blessed headstrong property, that when once 
it has fairly made off with a hapless wight, 
it gets so enamoured with the tinkle-gingle, 
tinkle-gingle of its own bells, that it is sure to 
run poor pilgarlick, the bedlam jockey, quite 
beyond any useful point or post in the common 
race of men. 

The following song I have composed for "Oran- 
gaoil," the Highland air that, you tell me in your 
last, you have resolved to give a place to in your 
book. I have this moment finished the song, 
so you have it glowing from the mint. If it 
suit you, well ! — If not, 'tis also well ! 



Behold the hour, the boat arrive. 1 



R.B. 



CCLXXIII. 

[This is another of the sagacious letters on Scottish song, which 
poets and musicians would do well to read and consider.] 

Sept. 1793. 

I have received your list, my dear Sir, and 
here go my observations on it. 2 

" Down the burn, Davie." I have this mo- 
ment tried an alteration, leaving out the last 
half of the third stanza, and the first half of the 
last stanza, thus : 

As down the burn they took their way, 

And thro' the flowery dale; 
His cheek to hers he aft did lay, 

And love was aye the tale. 
With " Mary, when shall we return, 

Sic pleasure to renew ?" 
Quoth Mary, " Love, I like the burn, 

And aye shall follow you." 3 

" Thro' the wood laddie" — I am decidedly of 
opinion that both in this, and " There'll never 



' SongCCVllI. 

' M '. Thomson's list of songs for his publication. 

' This is an alteration of one of Craufurd's songs. 



be peace till Jamie comes liame," the second 
or high part of the tune being a repetition of the 
first part an octave higher, is only for instru- 
mental music, and would be much better omitted 
in singing. 

" Cowden-knowes." Remember in your index 
that the song in pure English to this tune, bo- 
ginning, 

" When summer comes, the swains on Tweed," 

is the production of Crawfurd. Robert was his 
Christian name. 1 

"Laddie, lie near me," must lie by me for some 
time. I do not know the air; and until I am com- 
plete master of a tune, in my own singing (such 
as it is) I can never compose for it. My way 
is : I consider the poetic sentiment correspon- 
dent to my idea of the musical expression ; then 
chooose my theme; begin one stanza* %vhen 
that is composed, which is generally the most 
difficult part of the business, I walk out, sit 
down now and then, look out for objects of na- 
ture around me that are in unison and harmony 
with the cogitations of my fancy, and workings 
of my bosom ; humming every now and then 
the air with the verses I have framed. When I 
feel my muse beginning to jade, I retire to the 
solitary fire-side of my study, and there commit 
my effusions to paper ; swinging at intervals on 
the hind-legs of my elbow-chair, by way of call- 
ing forth my own critical strictures as my pen 
goes on. Seriously, this, at home, is almost in- 
variably my way. 

What cursed egotism ! 

" Gill Morice" I am for leaving out. It is a 
plaguy length ; the air itself is never sung ; and 
its place can well be supplied by one or two 
songs for fine airs that are not in your list — for 
instance " Craigieburn-wood" and "Roy's wife." 
The first, beside its intrinsic merit, has no- 
velty, and the last has high merit as well as 
great celebrity. I have the orginal words of a 
song for the last air, in the handAvriting of the 
lady who composed it ; and they are superior to 
any edition of the song which the public has yet 
seen. 

"Highland-laddie." The old set will please 
a mere Scotch ear best ; and the new an Italian- 
ised one. There is a third, and what Oswald 
calls the old " Highland-laddie," which pleases 
me more than either of them. It is sometimes 
called " Gingiin Johnnie ;" it being the air of an 
old humorous tawdry song of that name. You 
will find it in the Museum, " I hae been at 
Crookieden," &c. I would advise you, in the 
musical quandary, to offer up your prayers to the 
muses for inspiring direction ; and in the mean- 
time, waiting for this direction, bestow a liba- 
tion to Bacchus ; and there is not a doubt but 
you will hit on a j\idicions choice. Probatum 
est. 

" Auld Sir Simon" I must beg you to leave 
out, and put in its place "The Quaker's wife." 

1 His Christian name was William.' 



OF 110HKKT BURNS. 



3tf7 



c< Bly the hae I been on yon hill," ' is one of 
the finest songs ever I made in my life, and, be- 
sides, is composed on a young- lady, positively 
the most beautiful, lovely woman in the world. 
As I purpose giving you the names and designa- 
tions of all my heroines, to appear in some future 
edition of your work, perhaps half a century 
hence, you must certainly include " The bon- 
niest lass in a' the warld," in your collection. 

" Dainty Davie" I have heard sung nineteen 
thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine times, 
and always with the chorus to the low part of 
the tune ; and nothing has surprised me so much 
as your opinion on this subject. If it will not 
suit as I proposed, we will lay two of the stanzas 
together, and then make the chorus follow, ex- 
actly as Lucky Nancy in the Museum. 

" Fee him, father :" I enclose you Frazer's set 
of this tune when he plays it slow : in fact he 
makes it the language of despair. I shall here 
give you two stanzas, in that style, merely to try 
if it will be any improvement. Were it possi- 
ble, in singing, to give it half the pathos which 
Frazer gives it in playing, it would make an ad- 
mirably pathetic song. I do not give these 
verses for any merit they have. I composed 
them at the time in which " Patie Allan's 
mither died — that was about the back o' mid- 
night;" and by the lee-side of a bowl of punch, 
which had overset every mortal in company ex- 
cept the hautbois and the muse. 

Thou hast left me ever Jamie. 2 

" Jockie and Jenny" I would discard, and in 
its place would put " There's nae luck about the 
house," 3 which has a very pleasant air, and which 
is positively the finest love-ballad in that style 
in the Scottish, or perhaps in any other language. 
" When she came ben she bobbit," as an air is 
more beautiful than either, and in the adante 
way would unite with a charming sentimental 
ballad. 

" Saw ye my father ?" is one of my greatest 
favourites. The evening before last, I wandered 
out, and began a tender song, in what I think 
is its native style. I must premise that the 
old way, and the way to give most effect, is 
to have no starting note, as the fiddlers call it, 
but to burst at once into the pathos. Every 
country girl sings " Saw ye my father?" &c. 

My song is but just begun ; and I should like, 
before I proceed, to know your opinion of it, 
I have sprinkled it with the Scottish dialect, 
but it may be easily turned into correct Eng- 
lish. 4 

" Todlin hame." Urbani, mentioned an idea 
of his, which has long been mine, that this air is 
highly susceptible of pathos : accordingly, you 
will soon hear him at your concert try it to a 
song of mine in the Museum, " Ye banks and 

J Song CXCV. 2 song CCIX, 

riy William Julius Micule. 
* The song here alluded to is one which the poet afterwards sent lu 
ein entire form : — 

" Whfvrpare the ; ov* T hne met in the moniinn:."' 



braes o' bonnie Doon." One song more and I 
have done ; " Auld lang syne." The air is but 
mediocre; but the following song, the old song 
of the olden times, and which has never been in 
print, nor even in manuscript, until I took it 
down from an old man's singing, is enough to 
recommend any air. 1 

Now, I suppose, I have tried your patience 
fairly. You must, after all is over, have a num- 
ber of ballads, properly so called. " (iill Mo- 
rice," " Tranent Muir," " Macpherson's fare- 
well," " Battle of Sheriff-muir," or, " We ran, 
and they ran," (I know the author of this charm- 
ing ballad, and his history,) " llardiknute," 
"Barbara Allan" (I can furnish a finer set of 
this tune than any that has yet appeared ;) and 
besides do you know that I really have the old 
tune to which "The cherry and the slae" was sung, 
and which is mentioned as a well-known air in 
" Scotland's Complaint," a book published before 
poor Mary's days ? 2 It was then called " The 
banks of Helicon ;" an old poem which Pinker- 
ton has brought to light. You will see all this in 
Ty tier's History of Scottish music. The tune, 
to a learned ear, may have no great merit ; but 
it is a great curiosity. I have a good many origi- 
nal things of this kind. 

KB. 



CCLXXIV. 



[Burns listened too readily to the suggestion of Thomson, to alter 
' Bruce's Address to his troops at Bannockburn:" whatever may be 
the merits of the air of " Louis Gordon," the sublime simplicity of 
the words was injured, by the alteration: it is now sung as origi- 
nally written, by all singers of taste.] 



September, 1793. 

I am happy, my dear Sir, that my ode pleases 
you so much. Your idea, "honour's bed," is, 
though a beautiful, a hackneyed idea; so, if you 
please, we will let the line stand as it is. I have 
altered the song as follows : — 3 

N. B. I have borrowed the last stanza from 
the common stall edition of Wallace — 

" A false usurper sinks in every foe, 
And liberty returns with every blow. 

A couplet worthy of Homer. Yesterday you 
had enough of my correspondence. The post 
goes, and my head aches miserably. One com- 
fort ! I suffer so much, just now, in this world, 
for last night's joviality, that I shall escape scot« 
free for it in the world to come. Amen. 

R. B. 



i SongCCX. 

a A curious and rare book, which Ley den afterwards ->d.ie«l. 

3 SongCCVII. 



368 



GENERAL COKRESPO NDENCE 



CCLXXV. 

Zo 0lv. 2Ff)om$son. 



rThe poet's good sense rose at last in arms against the criticisms 
of the musician, and he refused to lessen the dignity of his war- 
ode by any more alterations.] 

September, 1703. 

" Who shall decide when doctors disagree ?" 
My ode pleases me so much that I cannot alter 
it. Your proposed alterations would, in my 
opinion, make it tame. I am exceedingly obliged 
to you for putting me on reconsidering it, as I 
think I have much improved it. Instead of 
"sodger ! hero !" I will have it " Caledonian, on 
wi' me !" 

I have scrutinized it over and over ; and to . 
the'world, some way or other, it shall go as it is. 
At the same time it will not in the least hurt 
me, should you leave it out altogether, and 
adhere to your first intention of adopting Logan's 
verses. 

I have finished my song to " Saw ye my fa- 
ther ?" and in English as you will see. That 
there is a syllable too much for the expression of 
the air, is true ; but, allow me to say, that the mere 
dividing of a dotted crotchet into a crotchet and a 
quaver, is not a great matter : however, in that 
I have no pretensions to cope in judgment with 
you. Of the poetry I speak with confidence ; 
but the music is a business where I hint my 
ideas with the utmost diffidence. 

The old verses have merit, though unequal, 
and are popular : my advice is to set the air to 
the old words, and let mine follow as English 
verses. Here they are : — 

Where are the joys I have met in the morn- 
ing? 1 

Adieu, my dear Sir ! the post goes, so I shall 
defer some other remarks until more leisure. 

R. B. 



CCLXXVI. 
^o 0lx. Thomson. 



[For " Fy ! let us a' to the bridal," and " Fy ! gie me my coggie, 
Sirs," and " There's nae luck about the house," Burns puts in a 
word of praise, from a feeling that Thomson's taste would induce 
him to exclude the first — one of our most original songs — from his 
collection.] 



September, 1793. 
I have been turning over some volumes of 
songs, to find verses whose measures would suit 
the airs for which you have allotted me to find 
Euglish songs. 



For " Muirland Willie,'" you have, in Ram- 
say's Tea-Table, an excellent song beginning, 
" Ah, why those tears in Nelly's eyes ?" As for 
" The collier's dochter," take the following old 
bacchanal : — 

" Deluded swain, the pleasure, &c. M ' 

The faulty line in Logan- Water, I mend 
thus: 

How can your flinty hearts enjoy 
The widow's tears, the orphan 's cry ? 

The song otherwise will pass. As to " M'Gre 
goria Rua-Ruth," you will see a song of mine 
to it, with a set of the air superior to yours, 
in the Museum, vol. ii. p. 181. The song be- 
gins, 

Raving winds around her blowing. 2 

Your Irish airs are pretty, but they are rank 
Irish. If they were like the " Banks of Banna," 
for instance, though really Irish, yet in the 
Scottish taste, you might adopt them. Since 
you are so fond of Irish music, what say you to 
twenty-five of them in an additional number ? 
We could easily find this quantity of charming 
airs, I will take care that you shall not want 
songs; and I assure you that you would find 
it the most saleable of the whole. If you do 
not approve of " Roy's wife," for the music's 
sake, we shall not insert it. " Deil tak the 
wars" is a charming song ; so is, " Saw ye my 
Peggy ?" " There's nae luck about the house" 
well deserves a place. I cannot say that " O'er 
the hills and far awa" strikes me as equal to 
your selection. " This is no my ain house" is a 
great favourite air of mine; and if you will send me 
your set of it, I will task my muse to her highest 
effort. What is your opinion of " I hae laid a 
herrin' in saut ?" I like it much. Your Jaco- 
bite airs are pretty, and there are many others of 
the same kind pretty; but you have not room for 
them. You cannot, I think, insert " Fy ! let's 
a' to the bridal," to any other words than its 
own. 

What pleases me, as simple and naive, dis- 
gusts you as ludicrous and low. For this 
reason, " Fy ! gie me my coggie, Sirs," " Fy ! 
let's a' to the bridal," with several others 
of that cast, are to me highly pleasing ; while, 
" Saw ye my father, or saw ye my mother !" 
delights me with its descriptive simple pathos. 
Thus my song, " Ken ye what meg o' the mill 
has gotten ?" pleases myself so much, that I 
cannot try my hand at another song to the 
air, so I shall hot attempt it. I know you will 
laugh at all this ; but " ilka man wears his belt 
his ain gait." 

R.B, 



OF ROBKRT BURNS. 



369 



CCLXXVIL 
®o J&r. 3T|)om$$on. 



(Of the Hen. Andrew Erskine an account was communicated in 
n letter to Bums by Thomson, which the writer has withheld. He 
was a gentleman of talent, and joint projector of Thomson'* bffw 
celebrated work.] 

October, 1793. 

You it last letter, my dear Thomson, was 
indeed laden with heavy news. Alas, poor 
Erskine ! ' The recollection that ho was a co- 
adjutator in your publication, has till now scared 
me from writing to you, or turning my thoughts 
on composing for you. 

I am pleased that you are reconciled to the air 
of the " Quaker's wife ;" though, by the bye, an 
old Highland gentleman, and a deep antiquarian, 
tells me it is a Gaelic air, and known by the 
name of " Leiger m' choss." The following 
verses, I hope, will please you, as an English 
song to the air. 

Thine am I, my faithful fair : 2 

Your objection to the English song I pro- 
posed for " John Anderson my jo," is certainly 
just. The following is by an old acquaintance 
of mine, and I think has merit. The song was 
never in print, which I think is so much in your 
favour. The more original good poetry your 
collection contains, it certainly has so much the 
more merit. 

SONG. — BY GAVIN TURNTJULL. 5 

Oh, condescend, dear charming maid, 

My wretched state to view; 
A tender swain, to love betray'd, 

And sad despair, by you. 

While here, all melancholy, 

My passion I deplore, 
Yet, urg'd by stern , resistless fate, 

I love thee more and more. 

1 heard of love, and -with disdain 

The urchin's power denied. 
I laugh'd at every lover's pain, 

And mock'd them when they sigh'd. 

But how my state is alter'd ! 

Those happy days are o'er ; 
For all thy unrelenting hate, 

1 love thee more and more. 

Oh, yield, illustrious beauty, yield ' 

No longer let me mourn ; 
.And though victorious in the field, 

Thy captive do not scorn. 

Let generous pity warm thee, 

My wonted peace restore ; 
And grateful I shall bless theestill, 

And love thee more and more. 



1 " The Honourable Andrew Erskine, whose melancholy death Mr. 
Fhomson had communicated in an excellent letter, which Le has sup- 
pressed"."— Curri E. 

2 SongCCXIIl. 

3 Gavin Turnbull was the author of a now forgotten vol'tme, 
published at Glasgow, ir. 1/H8, undcrthe title of " Poetical Essay*.' 



The following address of Turnbull's to thf 
Nightingale will suit as an English tong (o the 
air " There was a lass, and she was fair.'' By 
the bye, Turnbull has a great many songs in 
MS., which I can command, if you like bin 
manner. Possibly, as he is an old friend of 
mine, I may be prejudiced in his favour; but 1 
like some of his pieces very much. 

THE NIGHTINGALE. 

Thou sweetest minstrel of the grove, 

Thatever tried the plaintive strain, 
Awake thy tender tale of love, 

And soothe a poor forsaken swain. 



For though the muses deign to aid 
And teach him smoothly to compinta 

Yet Delia, charming, cruel maid, 
Is deaf to her forsaken swain. 

All day, with fashion's gaudy sons, 
In sport she wanders o'er the plain : 

Their tales approves, and still she shum 
The notes of her forsaken swain. 

When evening shades obscure the sky, 
And bring the solemn hours again, 

Begin, sweet bird, thy melody, 
And soothe a poor forsaken swain. 



I shall just transcribe another of Turnbuire, 
which would go charmingly to " Lewie Gor- 
don." 



LAURA. 

Let me wander where I will, 
By shady wood, or winding rill ; 
Where the sweetest May-born flowers 
Paint the meadows, deck the bowers ; 
Where the linnet's early song 
Echoes sweet the woods among 
Let me wander where I will, 
Laura haunts my fancy still. 



If at rosy dawn I choose 
To indulge the smiling muse ; 
If 1 court some cool retreat, 
To avoid the noontide heat ; 
If beneath the moon's pale ray, 
Thro' unfrequented wilds I stray ; 
Let me wander where I will, 
Laura haunts my fancy still. 

When at night the drowsy god 
Waves his sleep-compelling rod, 
And to fancy's wakeful eyes 
Bids celestial vision rise, 
While with boundless joy I r<w e 
Thro' the fairy land of love; 
Let me wander where I will, 
Laura haunts my fancy stilL 



The rest of your letter I shall answer at some 
other opportunity. 

R. B 



370 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



CCLXXVI1I. 

WITH A PARCEL. 



[The eolation of songs alluded to in this letter, are only known 
ijo the curious in loose lore: they were printed by an obscure book- 
seller, hut not before death had secured him from the indignation of 
Burns.] 



Sir, 



Dumfries, [December, 1793.] 



*Tis said that we take the greatest liberties 
with our greatest friends, and I pay myself a 
very high compliment in the manner in which I 
am going to apply the remark. I have owed 
you money longer than ever I owed it to any 
man. Here is Kerr's account, and here are the 
six guineas ; and now I don't owe a shilling to 
man — or woman either. But for these damned 
dirty, dog's-ear'd little pages, l I had done 
myself the honour to have waited on you long 
ago. Independent of the obligations your hos- 
pitality has laid me under, the consciousness of 
your superiority in the rank of man and gentle- 
man, of itself was fully as much as I could ever 
make head against ; but to owe you money too, 
was more than I could face. 

I think I once mentioned something to you 
of a collection of Scots songs I have for some 
years been making : I send you a perusal of 
what I have got together. I could not conve- 
niently spare them above five or six days, and 
five or six glances of them will probably more than 
suffice you. When you are tired of them, please 
leave them with Mr. Clint, of the King's Arms. 
There is not another copy of the collection 
in the world ; and I should be sorry that any 
unfortunate negligence should deprive me of 
chat has cost me a good deal of pains. 

I have the honour to be, &c. 

R. B. 



CCLXXIX. 

DRUMLANRIG. 



[These words, thrown into the form of a note, are copied from a 
olank leaf of the poet's works, published in two volumes, small 
■>ctavo,in 1793.1 

Dumfries, 1793. 
Wzt.l Mr. M'Murdo do me the favour to ac- 
cept of these volumes; a trifling but sincere 
mark of the very high respect I bear for his 
worth as a man, his manners as a gentleman, 
and his kindness as a friend. However inferior 
now, or afterwards, I may rank as a poet ; one 

• Scottish Bank Notes 



honest virtue to which few poets can pretend, 
I trust I shall ever claim as mine : — to no man, 
whatever his station in life, or his power to 
serve me, have I ever paid a compliment at the 
expense of truth. 

The Authok. 



CCLXXX. 

2To ©aptatn 



[This excellent letter obtained from Stewart of Dalguise, is copse:? 
from my kind friend Chambers's collection of Scottish songs.] 



Dumfries, hlh December, 1793. 
Sir, 
Heated as I was with wine yesternight, I 
was perhaps rather seemingly impertinent in 
my anxious wish to be honoured with your ac- 
quaintance. You will forgive it : it was the 
impulse of heart-felt respect. " He is the fa- 
ther of the Scottish county reform, and is a 
man who does honour to the business, at the 
same time that the business does honour to him," 
said my worthy friend Glenriddel to somebody 
by me who was talking of your coming to this 
county with your corps. " Then," I said, " I 
have a woman's longing to take him by the hand, 
and say to him, ' Sir, I honour you as a man 
to whom the interests of humanity are dear, and 
as a patriot to whom the rights of your country 
are sacred.' " 

In times like these, Sir, when our commoners 
are barely able by the glimmer of their owr. 
twilight understandings to scrawl a frank, and 
when lords are what gentlemen would be 
ashamed to be, to whom shall a sinking coun- 
try call for help ? To the independent country 
gentleman ? To him who has too deep a stake 
in his country not to be in earnest for her wel- 
fare ; and who in the honest pride of man can 
view with equal contempt the insolence of office 
and the allurements of corruption. 

I mentioned to you a Scots ode or song I had 
lately composed, and which I think has some 
merit. Allow me to enclose it. When I fall 
in with you at the theatre, I shall be glad to 
have your opinion of it. Accept of it, Sir, 
as a very humble but most sincere tribute of 
respect from a man, who, dear as he prizes 
poetic fame, yet holds dearer an independent 
mind. 

I have the honour to be, 

R.B, 



OF ROBKRT BURNS. 



371 



CCLXXXI 
"Eo 0it*. MttJtJcK 

Wiio was zbout to bespeak a Play one evening at 
the Dumfries Theatre. 



(This clever lady, to whom Burns so happily applies the w 
Thomson, died in the year 1820, at Hampton Court. ] 



I am thinking to send my "Address" to some 
periodical publication, but it has not yet got 
your sanction, so pray look over it. 

As to the Tuesday's play, let me beg of you, 
my dear madam, to give us, " The Wonder, a 
Woman keeps a Secret I" to which please add, 
" The Spoilt Child" — you will highly oblige me 
by so doing. 

Ah, what an enviable creature you are. 
There now, this cursed, gloomy, blue-devil day, 
you are going to a party of choice spirits — 

"To play the shapes 
Of frolic fancy, and incessant form 
Those rapid pictures, assembled train 
Of fleet ideas, never join'd before, 
Where lively wit excites to gay surprise ; 
Or folly-painting humour, gtave himself, 
Calls laughter forth, deep-shaking every nerve." 

Thomson. 

But as you rejoice with them that do rejoice, 
do also remember to weep with them that weep, 
and pity your melancholy friend. 

R. B. 



CCLXXXII. 

^0 a Hatig, 



IN FAVOUR OF A PLAYER S BENEFIT. 



[The name of the lady to whom this letter is addressed, has not 
transpired.J 

Dumfries, 1794. 
Madam, 
You were so very good as to promise me to 
honour my friend with your presence on his 
benefit night. That night is fixed for Friday 
first : the play a most interesting one I " The 
Way to Keep Him." I have the pleasure to 
know Mr. G. well. His merit as an actor is 
generalby acknowledged. He has genius and 
worth which would do honour to patronage : he 
is a poor and modest man ; claims which from 
their very silence have the more forcible 
power on the generous heart. Alas, for pity ! 
that from the indolence of those who have the 
good things of this life in their gift, too often 
does brazen-fronted importunity snatch that boon, 
the.righful due of retiring, humble want ! Of 
all the qualities we assign to the author and 
director of nature, by far the most enviable is — 
to be able " to wipe away all tears from all eyes." 



what insignificant, sordid wretches are they, 
however chance may have loaded them with 
wealth, who go to the graves, to their mag- 
nificent mausoleums, with hardly the conscious- 
ness of having made one poor honest heart 
happy ! 

But I crave your pardon, Madam ; I came to 
beg, not to preach. 

It. B. 



ccLXXxnr. 

©o tf)e <&ax\ of $ucf)ait, 

With a Copy of Bruce'' s Address to his Troops at 
Bannockburn. 



[This fantastic Karl of Ruchan died a few years ago: wn.'n 
was put into the family burial-ground, at Drybuigh, his head v 
laid the wrong way, which Sir Walter Scott said was little mat! 
as it had never been quite right in his lifetime. J 



Dumfries, \2th January, 1704. 
My Lord, 

Will your lordship allow me to present you 
with the enclosed little composition of mine, as 
a small tribute of gratitude for the acquaintance 
with which you have been pleased to honour me. 
Independent of my enthusiasm as a Scotsman,. 
I have rarely met with anything in history, 
which interests my feelings as a man, equal with 
the story of Bannockburn. On the one hand, a 
cruel, but able usurper, leading on the finest 
army in Europe to extinguish the last spark of 
freedom among a greatly-daring and greatly-in- 
jured people ; on the other hand, the despe- 
rate relics of a gallant nation, devoting them- 
selves to rescue their bleeding country, or perish 
with her. 

Liberty ! thou art a prize truly, and indeed 
invaluable ! for never canst thou be too dearly 
bought ! 

If my little ode has the honour of your lord- 
ship's approbation, it will gratify my highest am- 
bition. 

I have the honour to be, &c. 

R. B. 



CCLXXXIV 
®o Captain filler, 

DALSWINTON. 



[Captain Miller, of Dalswinton, sat in the House of Commons for 
the Dumfries district of boroughs. Dalswinton has passed from the 
family to my friend James M 'Alpine Lenv F^t, 

Dear Sir, 
The following ode is on the subject whi d 1 1 
know, you by no means regard with indifference. 
Oh, Liberty, 



372 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



'* Thou mak'it the gloomy face of nature gay, 
Giv'st beauty to the sun, and pleasure totheday." 

ADDISON. 



It does me much good to meet with a man 
whose honest bosom glows with the generous 
enthusiasm, the heroic daring of liberty, that I 
could not forbear sending you a composition of 
my own on the subject, which I really think is 
in my best manner. 

I have the honour to be, 

Bear Sir, &c. 

R. B. 



CCLXXXV. 



The dragon guarding the Hesperian fruit, was simply a military 
officer, who, with the courtesy of those whose trade is arms, paid at- 
tention to the lady, j 



Dear Madam, 

I meant to have called on you yesternight, 
but as I edged up to your box-door, the first 
object which greeted my view, was one of those 
lobster-coated puppies, sitting like another dra- 
gon, guarding the Hesperian fruit. On the con- 
ditions and capitulations you so obligingly offer, 
I shall certainly make my weather-beaten rustic 
phiz a part of your box-furniture on Tuesday ; 
when we may arrange the business of the visit. 

Among the profusion of idle compliments, 
which insiduous craft, or unmeaning folly, in- 
cessantly offer at your shrine — a shrine, how far 
exalted above such adoration — permit me, were 
it but for rarity's sake, to -pa,j you the honest 
tribute of a warm heart and an independent 
mind ; and to assure you, that I am, thou most 
amiable and most accomplished of thy sex, 
with the most respectful esteem, and fervent re- 
gard, thine, &c. 

R.B. 



CCLXXXVI. 



®o 0lt$. ftfotd. 



FThe patient sons of order and prudence seem often t 
the poet to such invectives its (his letter exhibits.] 



I will wait on you, my ever-valued friend, 
but whether in the morning .1 am not sure. 
Sunday closes a period of our curst revenue bu- 
siness, and may probably keep me employed 
with my pen until noon. Fine employment for 
a poet*.s pen ! There is a species of the human 



genus that I call the gin-horse class : what enviable 
dogs they are ! Round, and round, and round they 
go, — Mundell's ox that drives his cotton-mill is 
their exact prototype — without an idea or wish 
beyond their circle; fat, sleek, stupid, patient, 
quiet, and contented; while here I sit, altogether 
Novemberish, a d-mn'd melange of fretfulness 
and melancholy ; not enough of the one to rouse 
me to passion, nor of the other to repose me in 
torpor, my soul flouncing and fluttering round 
her tenement, like a wild finch, caught amid the 
horrors of winter, and newly thrust into a cage. 
Well, I am persuaded that it was of me the He- 
brew sage prophesied, when he foretold — " And 
behold, on whatsoever this man doth set his 
heart, it shall not prosper !" If my resentment 
is awaked, it is sure to be where it dare not 
squeak : and if — * * * * 

Pray that wisdom and bliss be more frequent 
visitors of 

R. B. 



CCLXXXVII. 



[The bard often offended and often appeased this wmmsical but 
clever lady. J 



I have this moment got the song from Syme, 
and I am sorry to see that he has spoilt it a 
good deal. It shall be a lesson to me how I 
lend him any thing again. 

I have sent you "Werter," truly happy to 
have any the smallest opportunity of obliging 
you. 

'Tis true, Madam, I saw you once since I was 
at Woodlea ; and that once froze the very life- 
blood of my heart. Your reception of me was 
such, that a wretch meeting the eye of his judge, 
about to pronounce sentence of death on him, 
could only have envied my feelings and situa- 
tion. But I hate the theme, and never more 
shall write or speak on it. 

One thing I shall proudly say, that I can pay 
Mrs. R. a higher tribute of esteem, and appreci- 
ate her amiable worth more truly, than any 
man whom I have seen approach her. 

R.B, 



CCLXXXVIII. 

2Fo Jttitf. ftttfod. 



[ Burnsoften complained in company, and sometimes in his ictrew 
of the caprice of Mrs. Ricldel.J 



I have often told you, my dear friend, that you 
had a spice of caprice in your composition 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



373 



and you have as often disavowed it; even perhaps 
while your opinions were, at the moment, irre- 
fragably proving it. Could any thing estrange 
me from a friend such as you ? — No ! To- 
morrow I shall have the honour of waiting on 
you. 

Farewell, thou first of friends, and most ac- 
complished of women ; even with all thy little 
caprices ! 

R.B. 



CCLXXXIX. 



lothed by this submissive letter, and the 
r good graces.] 

Madam, 

I return your common-place book. I have 
perused it with much pleasure, and would have 
continued my criticisms, but as it seems the 
critic has forfeited your esteem, his strictures 
nust loose their value. 

If it is time that " offences come only from 
the heart," before you I am guiltless. To ad- 
mire, esteem, and prize you as the most accom- 
plished of women, and the first of friends — if 
these are crimes, I am the most offending thing 
alive. 

In a face where I used to meet the kind com- 
placency of friendly confidence, now to find cold 
neglect, and contemptuous scorn — is a wrench 
that my heart can ill bear. It is, however, 
some kind of miserable good luck, and while de 
haut-en-bas rigour may depress an unoffending 
wretch to the ground, it has a tendency to 
rouse a stubborn something in his bosom, which, 
though it cannot heal the wounds of his soul, is 
at least an opiate to blunt their poignancy. 

With the profoundest respect for your abili- 
ties ; the most sincere esteem and ardent re- 
gard for your gentle heart and amiable man- 
ners ; and the most fervent wish and prayer for 
your welfare, peace, and bliss, I have the ho- 
nour to be, 

Madam, 
Your most devoted humble servant, 

R.B. 



CCXC. 

3To Sjojjn §b$}\\t* ®H< 



[John Syme, of the stamp-office, was the companion as well as 
comrade in arms, of Rums: he was a well-informed gentleman, 
loved witty company, and sinned in rhyme now and then: his epi- 
grams were often happy.] 

You know that among other high dignities, 
you have the honour to be my supreme court of 



critical judicature, from which there is no ap- 
peal. I enclose you a song which I composed 
since I saw you, and I am going to give you the 
history of it. Do you know that among much 
that I admire in the characters and manners of 
those great folks whom I have now the honour 
to call my acquaintances, the Oswald family, 
there is nothing charms me more than Mr. Os- 
wald's unconcealable attachment to that incom- 
parable woman. Did you ever, my dear Syme, 
meet with a man who owed more to the Divine 
Giver of all good things than Mr. O. ? A fine 
fortune ; a pleasing exterior ; self-evident ami- 
able dispositions, and an ingenuous upright mind, 
and that informed too, much beyond the usual 
run of young fellows of his rank and fortune : 
and to all this, such a woman ! — but of her I 
shall say nothing at all, in despair of saying any 
thing adequate : in my song I have endeavoured 
to do justice to what would be his feelings, on 
seeing, in the scene I have drawn, the habita- 
tion of his Lucy. As I am a good deal pleased 
with my performance, I, in my first fervour, 
thought of sending it to Mrs. Oswald, but on 
second thoughts, perhaps what I offer as the 
honest incense of genuine respect, might, from 
the well-known character of poverty and poetry, 
be construed into some modification or other of 
that servility which my soul abhors. 

r. a 



CCXCI 



[Burns, on other occasions than this, recalled both his letters arid 
verses : it is to be regretted that he did not recall more of both.] 

Dumfries, 1794. 
Madam, 

Nothing short of a kind of absolute necessity 
could have made me trouble you with this letter. 
Except my ardent and just esteem for your 
sense, taste, and worth, every sentiment arising 
in my breast, as I put pen to paper to you, is 
painful. The scenes I have passed with the 
friend of my soul and his amiable connexions ! 
the wrench at my heart to think that he is 
gone, for ever gone from me, never more to meet 
in the wanderings of a weary -world ! and the 
cutting reflection of all, that I had most unfortu- 
nately, though most undeservedly, lost the confi- 
dence of that soul of worth, ere it took its flight ! 

These, Madam, are sensations of no ordinary 
anguish. — However, you also may be offended 
with some imputed improprieties of mine ; sensi- 
bility you know I possess, and sincerity none 
will deny me. 

To oppose those prejudices which have been 

raised against me, it is not the business of this 

letter. Indeed it is a warfare I know not how 

to wage. The powers of positive vice I can in 

5 c 



37* 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



some degree calculate, and against direct ma- 
levolence I can be on my guard ; but who can 
estimate the fatuity of giddy caprice, or ward off 
the unthinking mischief of precipitate folly ? 

I have a favour to request of you, Madam, 

and of your sister Mrs. , through your 

means. You know that, at the wish of my late 
friend, I made a collection of all my trifles in 
verse which I had ever written. They are many 
of them local, some of them puerile and silly, 
and all of them unfit for the public eye. As I 
have some little fame at stake, a fame that I 
trust may live when the hate of those who 
"watch for my halting/' and the contumelious 
sneer of those whom accident has made my su- 
periors, will, with themselves, be gone to the 
regions of oblivion ; I am uneasy now for the fate 

of those manuscripts — Will Mrs. have the 

goodness to destroy them, or return them to 
me ? As a pledge of friendship they were be- 
stowed ; and that circumstance indeed was all 
their merit. Most unhappily for me, that merit 
they no longer possess ; and I hope that Mrs. 

's goodness, which I well know, and ever 

will revere, will not refuse this favour to a 
man whom she once held in some degree of esti- 
mation. 

With the sincerest esteem, 

I have the honour to be, 

Madam, &c. 

R.B. 



CCXCII. 



[The religious reeling of Burns was sometimes blunted, but at 
times it burst out, as in this letter, with eloquence and fervour, min- 
gled with fear. J 

25th February, 1794. 
Canst thou minister to a mind diseased ? 
Canst thou speak peace and rest to a soul tost on 
a sea of troubles, without one friendly star to 
guide her course, and dreading that the next 
surge may overwhelm her ? Canst thou give to 
a frame tremblingly alive as the tortures of sus- 
pense, the stability and hardihood of the rock 
that braves the blast ? If thou canst not do the 
lervst cf these, why wouldst thou disturb me in 
my miseries, with thy inquiries after me ? 
****** 

For these two months I have not been able to 
lift a pen. My constitution and frame were, ab 
oriylne, blasted with a deep incurable taint of 
hypochondria, which poisons my existence. Of 
late a number of domestic vexations, and some 
pecuniary share in the ruin of these cursed 
times ; losses which, though trifling, were yet 
what I could ill bear, have so irritated me, 
that my feelings at times could only be envied by 
a reprobate spi)-it listening to the sentence that 
dooms it to perdition. 



Are you deep in the language of consolation ? 
I have exhausted in reflection every topic of 
comfort. A heart at ease would have been charmed 
with my sentiments and reasonings ; but as to 
myself, I was like Judas Iscariot preaching the 
gospel; he might melt and mould the hearts of 
those around him, but his own kept its native 
incorrigibility. 

Still there are two great pillars that bear us 
up, amid the wreck of misfortune and misery. 
The one is composed of the different modifica- 
I tions of a certain noble stubborn something in 
man, known by the names of courage, fortitude, 
magnanimity. The other is made up of those 
feelings and sentiments, which, however the 
sceptic may deny them, or the enthusiast disfi- 
gure them, are yet, I am convinced, original, 
and component parts of the human soul ; those 
senses of the mind, if I may be allowed the ex- 
pression, which connect us with, and link us to, 
those awful, obscure realities — an all-powerful, 
and equally beneficent God; and a world to come, 
beyond death and the grave. The first gives the 
nerve of combat, while a ray of hope beams on 
the field : the last pours the balm of comfort 
into the wounds which time can never cure. 

I do not remember, my dear Cunningham, 
that you and I ever talked on the subject of re- 
ligion at all. I know some who laugh at it, as 
the trick of the crafty few, to lead the undis- 
cerning many ; or at most as an uncertain ob- 
scurity, which mankind can never know any 
thing of, and with which they are fools if they 
give themselves much to do. Nor would I 
quarrel with a man for his irreligion, any more 
than I would for his want of a musical ear. I 
would regret that he was shut out from what, to 
me and to others, were such superlative sources 
of enjoyment. It is in this point of view, and 
for this reason, that I will deeply imbue the 
mind of every child of mine with religion. If 
my son should happen to be a man of feeling, 
sentiment, and taste, I shall thus add largely 
to his enjoyments. Let me flatter myself that 
this sweet little fellow, who is just now running 
about my desk, will be a man of a melting, ardent, 
glowing heart; and an imagination, delighted 
with the painter, and rapt with the poet. Let 
me figure him wandering out in a sweet even- 
ing, to inhale the balmy gales, and enjoy the 
growing luxuriance of spring ; himself the while 
in the blooming youth of life. He looks abroad 
on all nature, and through nature up to nature's 
God. His soul, by swift delighting degrees, is 
rapt above this sublunary sphere, until he can be 
silent no longer, and bursts out into the glorious 
enthusiasm of Thomson, 

" These, as they change, Almighty Father, these 
Are hut the varied God. — The rolling year 
Is full of thee." 

And so on in all the spirit and ardour of that 
charming hymn. These are no ideal pleasures, 
they are real delights ; and I ask what of the de- 
lights among the sons of menare superior, not to 
say equal to them ? And they have this precious, 



OK Rem F/RT BURNS. 



vast addition, that conscious virtue stamps them 
for their own ; and lays hold on them to bring 
herself into the presence of a witnessing, judg- 
ing, and approving God. 

R.T>. 



CCXCITI 
^"o tl;e (£arl of ffilencafrn. 



fThe original letter is in the possession of the Hon, Mrs. Halland, 
nf foynir.gs : it is undated, but from a memorandum on the back it 
appear! to have been written in May, 1794.] 

May, 1794. 
My Lord, 

When you cast your eye on the name at the 
bottom of this letter, and on the title-page of the 
book I do myself the honour to send your lord- 
ship, a more pleasurable feeling than my vanity 
tells me, that it must be a name not entirely un- 
known to you. The generous patronage of your 
late illustrious brother found me in the lowest 
obscurity : he introduced my rustic muse to the 
partiality of my country; and to him I owe all. 
My sense of his goodness, and the anguish of my 
soul at losing my truly noble protector and 
friend, I have endeavoured to express in a poem 
to his memory, which I have now published. 
This edition is just from the press ; and in my 
gratitude to the dead, and my respect for the 
living, (fame belies you, my lord, if you possess 
not the same dignity of man, which was your 
noble brother's characteristic feature,) I had 
destined a copy for the Earl of Glencairn. I 
learnt just now that you are in town:— allow 
me to present it you. 

I know, my lord, such is the vile, venal conta- 
gion which pervades the world of letters, that 
professions of respect from an author, particu- 
larly from a poet, to a lord, are more than sus- 
picious. I claim my by-past conduct, and my 
feelings at this moment, as exceptions to the too 
just conclusion. Exalted as are the honours of 
your lordship's name, and unnoted as is the ob- 
scurity of mine ; with the uprightness of an 
honest man, I come before your lordship with an 
offering, however humble, 'tis all I have to give, 
of my grateful respect ; and to beg of you, my 
lord, — 'tis all I have to ask of you, that you will 
do me the honour to accept of it. 

I have the honour to be, 

R. B. 



CCXCIV 



[The i.irrespomicncp between the poet and the muiiclan was Irw 
terruptedin spring, but in summer and autumn the song-strains ww* 

reneu-eu.j 

May, 1704. 
My dear Sir, 

I return you the plates, with which I am 
highly pleased ; I would humbly prrpose instead 
of the younker knitting stockings, to put a stock 
and horn into his hands. A friend of mine, uho 
is positively the ablest judge on the subject I 
have ever met with, and though an unknown, 
is yet a superior artist with the burin, is quite 
charmed with Allan's manner. I got him a 
peep of the " Gentle Shepherd ;" and he pro- 
nounces Allan a most original artist of great ex- 
cellence. 

For my part, I look on Mr. Allan's choosing 
my favourite poem for his subject, to be one 
of the highest compliments I have ever re- 
ceived. 

I am quite vexed at PI ey el's being cooped up in 
France, as it will put an entire stop to our work. 
Now, and for six or seven months, I shall be 
quite in song, as you shall see by and bye. I 
got an air, pretty enough, composed by Lady 
Elizabeth Heron, of Heron, which she calls "The 
Banks of Cree." Cree, is a beautiful romantic 
stream, and as her ladyship is a particular 
friend of mine, I have written the following song 
to it. 

Here is the glen and here the bower. * 

R. B. 



CCXCV. 
€0 BabtH Jft^ulloci), &$q. 



[The endorsement on the back of the original letter shows in what 
far lands it has travelled: — "Given by David M'Culloch, Penang, 
1810. A. Fraser." "Received, 15th December, 18 3, in Calcutta, 
from Captain Frazer"s widow, by me, Thomas Rankine." " Trans- 
mitted to Archibald Hastie, Esq., London, March, 27th, 1824, from 
Bombay."] 

Dumfries, 2lst June, 17^4. 
My dear Sir, 
My long-projected journey through your coun- 
try is at last fixed : and on "Wednesday next, if 
you have nothing of more importance to do, 
take a saunter down to Gatehouse about two or 
three o'clock, I shall be happy to take a draught 
of M'Kune's best with you. Collector Syme 
will be at Glens about that time, and will meet 
us about dish-of-tea hour. Syme goes also to 



1 Song CCXXJ1L 



376 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



Kerroughtree, and let me remind you of your 
kind promise to accompany me there, I will 
need all the friends I can muster, for I am in- 
deed ill at ease whenever I approach your ho- 
nourables and right honourable^. 

Yours sincerely, 

R.B. 



CCXCVI. 
^o J&i% IBunlop. 



[Castle Douglas is a thriving Galloway village : it was in other days 
called " The Carlinwark," but accepted its present proud name from 
ail opulent family of mercantile Douglasses, well known in Scotland, 
England, and America.] 

Castle Douglas, 25th June, 1794. 

Here, in a solitary inn, in a solitary village, 
am I set by myself, to amuse my brooding fancy 
as I may. — Solitary confinement, you know, is 
Howard's favourite idea of reclaiming sinners ; 
so let me consider by what fatality it happens 
that I have so long been exceeding sinful as to 
neglect the correspondence of the most valued 
friend I have on earth. To tell you that I have 
been in poor health will not be excuse enough, 
though it is true. I am afraid that I am about 
to suffer for the follies of my youth. My medi- 
cal friends threaten me with a flying gout ; but 
I trust they are mistaken. 

I am just going to trouble your critical pa- 
tience with the first sketch of a stanza I have 
been framing as I passed along the road. The 
subject is Liberty : you know, my honoured 
friend, how dear the theme is to me. I design 
it an irregular ode for General Washington's 
birth- day. After having mentioned the degene- 
racy of other kingdoms I come to Scotland 
thus : — 

Thee, Caledonia, thy wild heaths among, 
Thee, famed for martial deed, and sacred song, 

To thee I turn with swimming eyes ; 
Where is that soul of freedom fled ? 
Immingled with the mighty dead ! 

Beneath the hallowed turf where Wallace 
lies, 
Hear it not, Wallace, in thy bed of death, 

Ye babbling winds in silence sweep, 
Disturb ye not the hero's sleep." 

with additions of 

That arm which nerved with thundering fate, 
Braved usurpation's boldest daring ! 

One quenched in darkness like the sinking star, 
And one the palsied arm of tottering, power- 
less age." 

You will probably liave another scrawl from 
me in a stage or two. 

R.B. 



CCXCVTI. 

[The anxiety of Burns about the accuracy of his poetry, white in 
the press, was great : he found full employment for months in cosv 
reefing a new edition of his poems.] 

Dumfries, 1794. 
My dear Friend, 

You should have heard from me long ago ; 
but over and above some vexatious share in the 
pecuniary losses of these accursed times, I have 
all t-his winter been plagued with low spirits and 
blue devils, so that i" have almost hung my harp on. 
the willoic -trees. 

I am just now busy correcting a new edition 
of my poems, and this, with my ordinary busi- 
ness, finds me in full employment. 

I send you by my friend Mr. Wallace forty- 
one songs for your fifth volume ; if we cannot 
finish it in any other way, what would you think 
of Scots words to some beautiful Irish airs ? 
In the mean time, at your leisure, give a copy of 
the Museum to my worthy friend, Mr. Peter Hill, 
bookseller, to bind for me, interleaved with blank 
leaves, exactly as he did the Laird of Grlenrid- 
del's, that I may insert every anecdote I can 
learn, together with my own criticisms and re- 
marks on the songs. A copy of this kind I shall 
leave with you, the editor, to publish at some 
after period, by way of making the Museum a 
book famous to the end of time, and you re- 
nowned for ever. 

I have got an Highland Dirk, for which I 
have great veneration ; as it once was the dirk 
of Lord Balmerino. It fell into bad hands, who 
stripped it of the silver mounting, as well as the 
knife and fork. I have some thoughts of send- 
ing it to your care, to get it mounted anew. 

Thank you for the copies of my Volunteer 
Ballad. — Our friend Clarke has done indeed well ! 
'tis chaste and beautiful. I have not met with 
any thing that has pleased me so much. You 
know I am no connoisseur : but that I am an 
amateur— will be allowed me. 

R.B. 



CCXCVIII. 



[The blank in this letter could be filled up without writing treason: 
but nothing has been omitted of an original nature.] 



July, 1794. 
Is there no news yet of Pleyel ? Or is your 
work to be at a dead stop, until the allies set our 
modern Orpheus at liberty from the savage thral- 
dom of democrat discords? Alas the day ! And 
woe is me ! That auspicious period, pregnant 
with the happiness of millions, * ' * * 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



377 



I have presented a copy of your songs to the 
daughter of a much-valued and. much-honoured 
friend of mine, Mr. Graham of Fintry. I wrote 
on the blank side of the title-page the following 
address to the young lady : 

Here, where the Scottish muse immortal lives, 

R.B. 



CCXCIX. 



[Thomson says to Burns, 
'O'er the seas and far away," 
and touching.] 



' You have anticipated my opinion of 
Yet some of the verses are original 



tylh August, 1794. 

The last evening, as I was straying out, and 
thinking of " O'er the hills and far away, " I spun 
the following stanza for it; but whether my spin- 
ning will deserve to be laid up in store, like the 
precious thread of the silk-worm, or brushed to 
the devil, like the vile manufacture of the spider, 
I leave, my dear Sir, to your usual candid criti- 
cism. I was pleased with several lines in it at 
first, but I own that now it appears rather a 
flimsy business. 

This is just a hasty sketch, until I see whether 
it be worth a critique. We have many sailor 
songs, but as far as I at present recollect, they 
are mostly the effusions of the jovial sailor, not 
the wailings of his love-lorn mistress. I must here 
make one sweet exception — " Sweet Annie frae 
the sea-beach came." Now for the song: — 

How can my poor heart be glad.* 

I give you leave to abuse this song, but do it 
in the spirit of Christian meekness. 

R. B. 



ccc. 

Zty 0Lx. &f)oms!on. 



[The stream on the hanks of which this song; is supposed to be sung, 
Is known by three names, Cairn, Dalgonar, and Cluden. It rises 
under the name of Cairn, runs through a wild country, under 
the name of Dalgonar, affording fine trout-fishing as well as fine 
scenes, and under that of Cluden it all but washes the walls of Lin- 
cluden College, and then unites with the Nith.J 



Sept. 1794. 

I shall withdraw my " On the seas and far 

away" altogether : it is unequal, and unworthy 

the work. Making a poem is like begetting a 

son : you cannot know whether you have a wise 



»P<i*nCCXXlX. 



* Song CCXX1V. 



man or a fool, until 1 you produce him to the world 
to try him. 

For that reason I send you the offspring of my 
brain, abortions and all ; and, as such, pray look 
over them, and forgive them, and buro them. I 
am flattered at your adopting " GV the yowe* 
to the knowes," as it was owing to me that ever 
it saw the light. About seven years ago I was 
well acquainted with a worthy little fellow of 
a clergyman, a Mr. Clunie, who sang it charm- 
ingly; and, at my request, Mr. Clarke took it 
down from his singing. When I gave it to John- 
son, I added some stanzas to the song, and 
mended others, but still it will not do for you. 
In a solitary stroll which I took to-day, I tried 
my hand on a few pastoral lines, following up the 
idea of the chorus, which I would preserve. Here 
it is, with all its crudities and imperfections on 
its head. 

Ca' the yowes to the knowes, &c. T 

I shall give you my opinion of your other 
newly adopted songs my first scribbling fit. 

R. B. 



CCCI. 
f JHr. ^n&omjscm. 



[Dr. Maxwell, whose skill called forth the praises of the poet, had 
the honour of being named by Burke in the House of Commons : he 
shared in the French revolution, and narrowly escaped the guillo- 
tine, like many other true friends of liberty.] 



Sept. 1794. 

Do you know a blackguard Irish song called 
" Onagh's Waterfall ?" The air is charming, 
and I have often regretted the want of decent 
verses to it. It is too much, at least for my 
humble rustic muse, to expect that every effort 
of hers shall have merit ; still I think that it is 
better to have mediocre verses to a favourite air, 
than none at all. On this principle I have all 
along proceeded in the Scots Musical Museum ; 
and as that publication is at its last volume, I 
intend the following song, to the air above men- 
tioned, for that work. 

If it does not suit you as an editor, you may 
be pleased to have verses to it that you can sing 
in the company of ladies. 

Sae flaxen were her ringlets. 2 

Not to compare small things with great, my 
taste in music is like the mighty Frederick of 
Prussia's taste in painting : we are told that he 
frequently admired what the connoisseurs de- 
cried, and always without any hypocrisy con- 
fessed his admiration. I am sensible that my 
taste in music must be inelegant and vulgar, be- 
cause people of undisputed and cultivated tast*? 



2 Sowf CC5CXVL 
5 D 



378 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



can find no merit in my favourite tunes. Still, 
because I am cheaply pleased, is that any reason 
why I should deny myself that pleasure ? Many 
of our strathspeys, ancient and modern, give me 
most exquisite enjoyment, where you and other 
judges would probably be showing disgust. For 
instance, I am just now making verses for 
" Rothemurche's rant," an air which puts me in 
raptures ; and, in fact, unless I be pleased with 
the tunc, I never can make verses to it. Here 
I have Clarke on my side, who is a judge that I 
will pit against any of you. "Rotheinurche," 
he says, " is an air both original and beautiful ;" 
and, on his recommendation, I have taken the 
first part of the tune for a chorus, and the fourth 
or last part for the song. I am but two stanzas 
deep in the work, and possibly you may think, 
and justly, that the poetry is as little worth your 
attention as the music. 

[Here follow two stanzas of the song, beginning " Lassie wi' the 
lint-white locks." Song CCXXX III. J 

I have begun anew, " Let me in this ae night." 
Do you think that we ought to retain the oM 
chorus ? I think we must retain both the old 
chorus and the first stanza of the old song. I do 
not altogether like the third line of the first 
stanza, but cannot alter it to please myself. I 
am just three stanzas deep in it. "Would you 
have the denouement to be successful or other- 
wise ? — should she " let him in" or not ? 

Did you not once propose " The sow's tail to 
Geordie" as an air for your work ? I am quite 
delighted with it ; but I acknowledge that is no 
mark of its real excellence. I once set about 
verses for it, which I meant to be in the alter- 
nate way of a lover and his mistress chanting 
together. I have not the pleasure of knowing 
Mrs. Thomson's Christian name, and yours, I 
am afraid, is rather burlesque for sentiment, 
else I had meant to have made you the hero and 
heroine of the little piece. 

How do you like the following epigram which 
I wrote the other day on a lovely young girl's 
recovery from a fever ? Doctor Maxwell was 
the physician who seemingly saved her from the 
grave ; and to him I address the following : 

TO DR. MAXWELL, 

ON MISS JESSIE STAIG's RECOVERY. 

Maxwell, if merit here you crave, 

That merit I deny : 
You save fair Jessy from the grave ? — 

An angel could not die ! 

God grant you patience with this stupid epistle ! 

R.B. 



CCCIL 

£To 0ix, Thomson, 



[The poet reiates the histor}' of several of his best songs in this let- 
ter : the true old strain of " Andro and his cutty gun" is the first of 
its kind.] 



Wth October, 1J94. 
My dear Friend, 

By this morning's post I have your, list, and, 
in general, I highly approve of it. I shall, at 
more leisure, give you a critique on the whole. 
Clarke goes to your town by to-day's fly, and I 
wish you would call on him and take his opinion 
in general : you know his taste is a standard. 
He will return here again in a week or two, so 
please do not miss asking for him. One thing I 
hope he will do — persuade you to adopt my fa- 
vourite " Craigieburn-wood," in your selection : 
it is as great a favourite of his as of mine. The 
lady on whom it was made is one of the finest 
women in Scotland ; and in fact (entre nous) is 
in a manner to me what Sterne's Eliza was to 
him — a mistress, or friend, or what you will, in 
the guileless simplicity of Platonic love. (Now, 
don't put any of your squinting constructions on 
this, or have any clishmaclaver about it among 
our acquaintances.) I assure you that to my 
lovely friend you are indebted for many of your 
best songs of mine. Do you think that the 
sober, gin-horse routine of existence could in- 
spire a man with life, and love, and joy — could 
fire him with enthusiasm, or melt him with 
pathos, equal to the genius of your book ? No ! 
no ! Whenever I want to be more than ordi- 
nary in song — to be in some degree equal to 
your diviner airs — do you imagine I fast and 
pray for the celestial emanation ? Tout au con- 
traire ! I have a glorious recipe ; the very one 
that for his own use was invented by the di- 
vinity of healing and poetry, when erst he piped 
to the flocks of Admetus. I put myself in a 
regimen of admiring a fine woman ; and in pro- 
portion to the adorability of her charms, in pro- 
portion you are delighted with my verses. The 
lightning of her eye is the godhead of Parnassus 
and the witchery of her smile the divinity ot 
Helicon ! 

To descend to business ; if you like my idea 
of " When she cam ben she bobbit," the follow- 
ing stanzas of mine, altered a little from what 
they were formerly, when set to another air, may 
perhaps do instead of worse stanzas : — 

O saw ye my dear, my Phely. 1 

Now for a few miscellaneous remarks. " The 
Posie" (in the Museum) is my composition ; the 
air was taken down from Mrs. Burns's voice. It 
is well known in the west country, but the old 
words are trash. By the bye, take a look at the 
tune again, and tell me if you do not think it is 



Soiu:tX:XX.VL.U 



Of KOBEUT BURNS 



879 



fhe original from winch " Roslin Castle" is com- 
posed. The second part in particular, for the first 
two or three oars, is exactly the old air. " Strath- 
allan's Lament" is mine; the music is by our right 
trusty and deservedly well-beloved Allan Mas- 
tertou. " Donocht-Head" is not mine ; I would 
give ten pounds it were. It appeared first in the 
Edinburgh Herald, and came to the editor of 
that paper with the Newcastle post-mark on it. 
" Whistle o'er the lave o't" is mine : the music 
said to be by a John Bruce, a celebrated violin 
player in Dumfries, about the beginning of this 
century. This I know, Bruce, who was an ho- 
nest man, though a red-wud Highlandman, con- 
stantly claimed it ; and by all the old musical 
people here is believed to be the author of it. 

" Andrew and his cutty gun." The song to 
which this is set in the Museum is mine, and 
was composed on Miss Euphemia Murray, of 
Lintrose, commonly and deservedly called the 
Flower of Strathmore. 

" How long and dreary is the night I" I met 
with some such words in a collection of songs 
somewhere, which I altered and enlarged ; and 
to please you, and to suit your favourite air, I 
have taken a stride or two across my room and 
have arranged it anew, as you will find on the 
other page. 

How long and dreary is the night, &C. 1 

Tell me how you like this. I differ from your 
idea of the expression of the tune. There is, to 
me, a great deal of tenderness in it. You can- 
not, in my opinion, dispense with a bass to your 
addenda airs. A lady of my acquaintance, a 
noted performer, plays and sings at the same 
time so charmingly, that I shall never bear to 
see any of her songs sent into the world, as 
naked as Mr. What-d'ye-call-um has done in his 
London collection. 2 

These English songs gravel me to death. I 
have not that command of the language that I 
have of my native tongue. I have been at 
" Duncan Gray,''' to dress it in English, but all I 
can do is deplorably stupid. For instance : — 

Let not woman e'er complain, &c. 3 

Since the above, I have been out in the coun- 
try, taking a dinner with a friend, where I met 
with the lady whom I mentioned in the second 
page in this odds-and-ends of a letter. As usual, 
I got into song ; and returning home I composed 
the following : 

Sleep' st thou, or wak'st thou, fairest creature, 
&c. 4 

If you houour my verses by setting the air to 
them, I will vamp up the old song, and make it 
English enough to be understood. 



I enclose you a musical curiosity, an East Lu- 
dian air, which you would swear v. as a Scottish 
one. I know the authenticity of it, us the gen- 
tleman who brought it over is a particular ac- 
quaintance of mine. Do preserve me the copy I 
scud you, as it is the only one I have. Clarke 
has set a bass to it, and I intend putting it into 
the Musical Museum. Here follow the verses I 
intend for it. 

But lately seen in gladsome green, (kc. 1 

I would be obliged to you if you would procure 
me a sight of Ritson's collection of English songs, 
which you mention in your letter. I will thank 
you for another information, and that as speedily 
as you please : whether this miserable drawling 
hotchpotch epistle has not completely tired you 
of my correspondence ? 

variation. 

Now to the streaming fountain, 

Or up the heathy mountain, 
The hart, hind, and roe, freely, wildly- wanton 
stray ; 

In twining hazel bowers, 

His lay the linnet pours ; 

The lav'rock to the sky 

Ascends wi' sangs o' joy, 
While the sun and thou arise to bless the day. 

When frae my Chloris parted, 

Sad, cheerless, broken-hearted, 
The night's gloomy shades, cloudy, dark, oVr- 
cast my sky. 

But when she charms my sight, 

In pride of beauty's light; 

When through my very heart 

Her beaming glories dart ; 
Tis then, 'tis then I wake to life and joy ! 

R. B. 



CCCIII. 



' SongCCXXVIIl. 

9 Mr. Hitson, whose collection of Scottish songs was published 
this year. 

Song'JWiXIX. « Song CCXXX. 



^"o JBtr. ^ijomson. 



[The presents made to the poet were far from numerous: the book 
'or which he expresses his thanks, was the work of the waspish Kit- 



November, 1794. 
Many thanks to you, my dear Sir, for your 
present ; it is a book of the utmost importance 
to me. I have yesterday begun my anecdotes, 
&c, for your work. I intend drawing them up 
in the form of a letter to you, which will save 
me from the tedious dull business of systematic 
arrangement. Indeed, as all I have to say con- 
sists of unconnected remarks, anecdotes, scraps 
of old songs, &c, it would be impossible to give 



i soig txxvr, 



380 



^ENEKAL CORRESPONDENCE 



the work a beginning, a middle, and an end, 
which the critics insist to be absolutely necessary 
in a work. In my last, I told you my objections 
to the song you had selected for " My lodging is 
on the cold ground." On my visit the other day 
to my fair Chloris (that is the poetic name of the 
lovely goddess of my inspiration,) she suggested 
an idea, which I, on my return from the visit, 
wrought into the following song. 

My Chloris, mark how green the groves. 1 

How do you like the simplicity and tenderness 
of this pastoral ? I think it pretty well. 

I like you for entering so candidly and so 
kindly into the story of " ma chere cmie" I as- 
sure you I was never more in earnest in my life, 
than in the account of that affair which I sent 
you in my last. Conjugal love is a passion which 
I deeply feel, and highly venerate ; but, some- 
how, it does not make such a figure in poesy as 
that other species of the passion, 

" Where love is liberty, and nature law." 

Musically speaking, the first is an instrument of 
.vhich the gamut is scanty and confined, but the 
tones inexpressibly sweet, while the last has 
powers equal to all the intellectual modulations 
of the human soul. Still, I am a very poet in my 
enthusiasm of the passion. The welfare and 
happiness of the beloved object is the first and 
inviolate sentiment that pervades my soul ; and 
whatever pleasures I might wish for, or whatever 
might be the raptures they would give me, yet, 
if they interfere with that first principle, it is 
having these pleasures at a dishonest price ; and 
iustice forbids, and generosity disdains the pur- 
chase. 

Despairing of my own powers to give you 
variety enough in English songs, I have been 
turning over old collections, to pick out songs, of 
which the measure is something similar to what 
I want ; and, with a little alteration, so as to suit 
the rhythm of the air exactly, to give you them 
for your work. Where the songs have hitherto 
been but little noticed, nor have ever been set to 
music, I think the shift a fair one. A song, 
which, under the same first verse, you will find 
in Ramsay's Tea-table Miscellany, I have cut 
down for an English dress to your " Dainty 
Davie," as follows: — 

It was the charming month of May. 2 

You may think meanly of this, but take a look 
at the bombast original, and you will be surprised 
that I have made so much of it. I have finished 
my song to " Rothemurche's rant," and you 
have Clarke to consult as to the set of the air 
for singing. 

Lassie wi' the lint-white locks, &c. 3 



' Soiig CCXXX I. *SongCCXXXIl. 3 Song CCXXXIII. 



This piece has at least the merit of being a 
regular pastoral : the vernal morn, the summer 
noon, the autumnal evening, and the winter 
night, are regularly rounded. If you like it, 
well ; if not, I will insert it in the Museum. 

R. B. 



CCCIV. 



[Sir Walter Scott remarked, on the lyrics of Burns, " that ajt .ast 
the writing a series of songs for large musical collections degenerated 
into a slavish labour which no talents could support." | 



I am out of temper that you should set so 
sweet, so tender an air, as " Deil tak the wars," 
to the foolish old verses. You talk of the silli- 
ness of "Saw ye my father?" — By heavens! 
the odds is gold to brass ! Besides, the old song, 
though now pretty well modernized into the 
Scottish language, is originally, and in the early 
editions, a bungling low imitation of the Scottish t 
manner, by that genius Tom D'Urfey, so has no 
pretensions to be a Scottish production. There 
is a pretty English song by Sheridan, in the 
" Duenna," to this air, which is out of sight su- 
perior to D'Urfey's. It begins, 

" When sable night each drooping plant restoring." 

The air, if I understand the expression of it pro- 
perly, is the very native language of simplicity, 
tenderness, and love. I have again gone over 
my song to the tune. 

Now for my English song to " Nancy's to the 
greenwood," &c. 

Farewell thou stream that winding flows. 1 

There is an air, " The Caledonian Hunt's de- 
light," to which I wrote a song that you will find 
in Johnson, " Ye banks and braes o' bonnie 
Doon :" this air I think might find a place 
among your hundred, as Lear says of his knights. 
Do you know the history of the air ? It is curi- 
ous enough. A good many years ago, Mr. James 
Miller, writer in your good town, a gentleman 
whom possibly you know, was in company with 
our friend Clarke ; and talking of Scottish music, 
Miller expressed an ardent ambition to be able 
to compose a Scots air. Mr. Clarke, partly by 
way of joke, told him to keep to the black key* 
of the harpsichord, and preserve some kind of 
rhythm, and he would infallibly compose a Scots 
air. Certain it is that, in a few days, Mr. Miller 
produced the rudiments of an air, which Mr. 
Clarke, with some touches and corrections, 
fashioned into the tune in question. Ritson, 
you know, has the same story of the black keys; 



OF ROBERT BURNS 



381 



but this account which I have just given you, 
Mr. Clarke informed me of several years ago. 
Now, to show you how difficult it is to trace the 
origin of our airs, I have heard it repeatedly as- 
serted that this was an Irish air; nay, I met 
with an Irish gentleman who affirmed he had 
heard it in Ireland among the old women ; 
while, on the other hand, a countess informed 
me, that the first person who introduced the air 
into this country, was a baronet's lady of her ac- 
quaintance, who took down the notes from an 
itinerant piper in the Isle of Man. How diffi- 
cult, then, to ascertain the truth respecting our 
poesy and music ! I, myself, have lately seen a 
couple of ballads sung through the streets of 
Dumfries, with my name at the head of them as 
the author, though it was the first time I had 
ever seen them. 

I thank you for admitting " Craigieburn- 
wood;" and I shall take care to furnish you with 
a new chorus. In fact, the chorus was not my 
work, but a part of some old verses to the air. 
If I can catch myself in a more than ordinarily 
propitious moment, I shall write a new " Craigie- 
burn-wood" altogether. My heart is much in 
the theme. 

I am ashamed, my dear fellow, to make the 
request ; 'tis dunning your generosity ; but in a 
moment when I had forgotten whether I was 
rich or poor, I promised Chloris a copy of your 
songs. It wrings my honest pride to write you 
this ; but an ungracious request is doubly so by 
a tedious apology. To make you some amends, 
as soon as I have extracted the necessary infor- 
mation out of them, I will return you Ilitson's 
volumes. 

The lady is not a little proud that she is to 
make so distinguished a figure in your collection, 
and I am not a little proud that I have it in my 
power to please her so much. Lucky it is for 
your patience that my paper is done, for when I 
am in a scribbling humour, I know not when to 
give over. 

R. B. 



cccv. 

2To #tv. ^bomson. 



[Willy and Phely, in one of the lyrics wnicn this letter contained, 
.Avvy on the pleasant bandying of praise till compliments grow scarce, 
rind the lovers are reduced to silence.] 



19 th November, 1794. 
You see, my dear Sir, what a punctual cor- 
respondent I am ; though, indeed, you may 
thank yourself for the tedium of my letters, as 
you have so flattered me on my horsemanship 
with my favourite hobby, and have praised the 
grace of his ambling so much, that I am scarcely 
ever off his back. For instance, this morning, 
though a keen blowing frost, in my walk before 



breakfast, I finished my duct, which you won; 
pleased to praise so much. Whether L have 
uniformly succeeded, I will not say; but here it 
is for you, though it is not an hour old. 

Philly, happy be the day.' 

Tell me honestly how you like it, and point out 
whatever you think faulty. 

I am much pleased with your idea of singing 
our songs in alternate stanzas, and regret that 
you did not hint it to me sooner. In those that 
remain, I shall have it in my eye. 1 remember 
your objections to the name Philly, but it is the 
common abbreviation of Phillis. Sally, the only 
other name that suits, has, to my ear, a vulgarity 
about it, which unfits it for any thing except 
burlesque. The legion of Scottish poetasters of 
the day, whom your brother editor, Mr. Ritson, 
ranks with me as my coevals, have always mis- 
taken vulgarity for simplicity; whereas, sim- 
plicity is as much eloiynze from vulgarity on the 
one hand, as from affected point and puerile con- 
ceit on the other. 

I agree with you as to the air, " Craigieburn- 
wood," that a chorus would, in some degree, 
spoil the effect, and shall certainly have none in 
my projected song to it. It is not, however, a 
case in point with " Rothemurche ;" there, as in 
" Roy's wife of Aldivalloch," a chorus goes, to 
my taste, well enough. As to the chorus going 
first, that is the case with " Roy's wife," as well 
as " Rothemurche." In fact, in the first part of 
both tunes, the rhythm is so peculiar and irregu- 
lar, and on that irregularity depends so much of 
their beauty, that we must e'en take them with 
all their wildness, and humour the verse accord- 
ingly. Leaving out the starting note in both 
tunes, has, I think, an effect that no regularity 
could counterbalance the want of. 



Try, 
and 



fOh Roy's wife of Aldivalloch. 
\0 lassie wi' the lint- white locks. 



.,, f Roy's wife of Aldivalloch. 
compare with | L ^ ^ the nnt . wllite lock& 

Does not the tameness of the prefixed syllable 
strike you ? In the last case, with the true furor 
of genius, you strike at once into the wild origi- 
nality of the air; whereas, in the first insipid 
method, it is like the grating screw of the pins 
before the fiddle is brought into tune. This is 
my taste; if I am wrong, I beg pardon of the 
cognoscenti. 

"The Caledonian Hunt" is so charming, that 
it would make any subject in a song go down : 
but pathos is certainly its native tongue. Scot- 
tish bacchanalians we certainly want, though the 
few we have are excellent. For instance, " Tod- 
lin hame," is, for wit and humour, an unparal- 
leled composition ; and "Andrew and his cutty 
gun" is the work of a master. By the way, are 
you not quite vexed to think that those men of 

• SongCCXXXV 



882 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



genius, for such they certainly were, who com- 
posed our fine Scottish lyrics should be un- 
known ? It has given me many a heart-ache. 
Apropos to bacchanalian songs in Scottish, I 
composed one yesterday, for an air I like much — 
" Lumps o' pudding." 

Contented wi' little and can tie wi' mair. 1 

If you do not relish this air, I will send it to 
Johnson. 

R.B. 



CCCVI 



| The instrument which the poet got from the braes of Athol, seems 
of an order as rude and incapable of tins sounds as the whistles which 
chool-boys make in spring from the smaller boughs of the plane-tree.] 



Since yesterday's penmanship, I have framed 
a couple of English stanzas, by way of an Eng- 
lish song to "Roy's wife." You will allow me, 
that in this instance my English corresponds in 
sentiment with the Scottish. 

Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy ? 2 

"Well ! I think this to be done in two or three 
turns across my room, and with two or three 
pinches of Irish blackguard, is not so far amiss. 
You see I am determined to have my quantum 
of applause from somebody. 

Tell my friend Allan (for I am sure that we 
only want the trifling circumstance of being 
known to one another, to be the best friends on 
earth) that I much suspect he has, in his plates, 
mistaken the figure of the stock and horn. I 
have, at last, gotten one, but it is a very rude 
instrument. It is composed of three parts ; the 
stock, which is the hinder thigh-bone of a sheep, 
such as you see in a mutton ham ; the horn, 
which is a common Highland cow's horn, cut off 
at the smaller end, until the aperture be large 
enough to admit the stock to be pushed up 
through the horn until it be held by the thicker 
end of the thigh-bone ; and lastly, an oaten reed 
exactly cut and notched like that which you see 
every shepherd boy have, when the corn-stems 
are green and full grown. The reed is not made 
fast in the bone, but is held by the lips, and 
plays loose in the smaller end of the stock; 
while the stock, with the horn hanging on its 
larger end is held by the hands in playing. The 
stock has six or seven ventiges on the upper 
side, and one back-ventige, like the common 
flute. This of mine was made by a man from 
the braes of A thole, and is exactly what the 
shepherds wont to use in that country. 



? Song CCXX.XVII. 



However, either it is not quite properly bored 
in the holes, or else we have not the art of blow- 
ing it rightly ; for we can make little of it. If 
Mr. Allan chooses, I will send him a sight of 
mine, as I look on myself to be a kind of brother- 
brush with him. "Pride in poets is nae sin;" 
and I will say it, that I look on Mr. Allan and 
Mr. Burns to be the only genuine and real 
painters of Scottish costume in the world. 

R.B. 



CCCVII. 
^o ^ttit 0tilUx t Sun., 1Esq. 

OF DALSWINTON. 



[In a conversation with James Perry, editor of the Morning Chro- 
nicle, Mr. Miller, who was then member for the Dumfries boroughs, 
kindly represented the poverty of the poet and the increasing number 
of his family : Perry at once offered fifty pounds a year for any contri- 
butions he might choose to make to his newspaper: the reasons foi 
his refusal are stated in this letter.] 



Dumfries, Nov. 1 'J 94. 
Dear Sir, 

Your offer is indeed truly generous, and most 
sincerely do I thank you for it ; but in my pre- 
sent situation, I find that I dare not accept it. 
You well know my political sentiments; and 
were I an insular individual, unconnected with 
a wife and a family of children, with the most 
fervid enthusiasm I would have volunteered my 
services : I then could and would have despised 
all consequences that might have ensued. 

My prospect in the Excise is something ; at 
least it is, encumbered as I am with the welfare, 
the very existence, of near half-a-score of help- 
less individuals, what I dare not sport with. 

In the mean time, they are most welcome to 
my Ode ; only, let them insert it as a thing they 
have met with by accident and unknown to me. 
— Nay, if Mr. Perry, whose honour, after your 
character of him, I cannot doubt ; if he will give 
me an address and channel by which any thing 
will come safe from those spies with which he 
may be certain that his correspondence is beset, 
I will now and then send him any bagatelle that 
I may write. In the present hurry of Europe, 
nothing but news and politics will be regarded ; 
but against the days of peace, which Heaven 
send soon, my little assistance may perhaps fill 
up an idle column of a newspaper. I have long 
had it in my head to try my hand in the way of 
little prose essays, which I propose sending into 
the world through the medium of some news- 
paper; and should these be worth his while, to 
these Mr. Perry shall be welcome ; and all my 
reward shall be, his treating me with his paper, 
which by the bye, to any body who has the leawl 
relish for wit, is a high treat indeed. 

With the most grateful esteem I am evei 
Dear Sir, 

TLB 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



383 



CCCVIII. 



DUMFRIES. 



[Poetical animosities troubled Eociety during the days of Burns, as 
much at least- as they disturb it now— this letter is an instance of it. ] 



Sunday Morning. 
Dear Sir, 
I was, I know, drunk last night, but I am 
sober this morning. From the expressions 
Capt. made use of to me, had I had no- 
body's welfare to care for but my own, we should 
certainly have come, according to the manners 
of the world, to the necessity of murdering one 
another about the business. The words were 
such as, generally, I believe, end in a brace of 
pistols ; but I am still pleased to think that I 
did not ruin the peace and welfare of a wife and 
a family of children in a drunken squabble. 
Farther you know that the report of certain po- 
litical opinions being mine, has already once 
before brought me to the brink of destruction. 
I dread lest last night's business may be misre- 
presented in the same way. — You, I beg, will 
take care to prevent it. I tax your wish for 
Mr. Burns' s welfare with the task of waiting as 
soon as possible, on every gentleman who was 
present, and state this to him, and, as you please, 
shew him this letter. What, after all, was the 
obnoxious toast ? " May our success in the pre- 
sent Avar be equal to the justice of our cause." 
— A toast that the most outrageous frenzy of 
loyalty cannot object to. I request and beg that 
this morning you will wait on the parties pre- 
sent at the foolish dispute. I shall only add, 
that I am truly sorry that a man who stood so 

high in my estimation as Mr. , should use 

me in the manner in which I conceive he has 
done. 

R. B. 



CCCIX. 

£To JMt\ STfromson. 



['Burrs allowed for the songs which Wolcot wrote for Thomson a 
egrec of lyric merit which the world has refused to sa 



December, 1794. 
It is, I assure you, the pride of my heart to 
do any thing to forward or acid to the value of 
your book ; and as I agree with you that the 
jacobite song in the Museum to " There'll never 
be peace till Jamie comes hame," would not s o 
well consort with Peter Pindar's excellent love- 
song to that air, I have just framed for you the 
following : — 

Now in her green mantle, &C 1 

• Song CCXXX VIII 



How docs this please you ? As to the point ol 
time for the expression, in your proposed print 
from my "Sodger's Return," it must certainly 
be at — "She gaz'd." The interesting dubiety 

and suspense taking possession of her counte- 
nance, and the gushing fondness, with a mixture 
of roguish playfulness in his, strike me as things 
of which a master will make a great deal. In 
great haste, but in great truth, yours. 

R. B. 



cccx. 

2To J2tr. ^outsort. 



[In this brief and off-hand way Burns bestows on Thomson one of 
the finest songs ever dedicated to the cause of human freedom.] 



January, 17^5. 

I fear for my songs ; however, a few may 
please, yet originality is a coy feature in compo- 
sition, and in a multiplicity of efforts in the same 
style, disappears altogether. For these three 
thousand years, we poetic folks have been de- 
scribing the spring, for instance ; and as the 
spring continues the same, there must soon be a 
sameness in the imagery &c, of these said rhym- 
ing folks. 

A great critic (Aikin) on songs, says that love 
and wine are the exclusive themes for song- 
writing. The following is on neither subject, 
and consequently is no song ; but will be al- 
lowed, I think, to be two or three pretty good 
prose thoughts inverted into rhyme. 

Is there for honest poverty. 1 

I do not give you the foregoing song for your 
book, but merely by way of vive la bagatelle; 
for the piece is not really poetry. How will the 
following do for " Craigie-burn wood ?" — 

Sweet fa's the eve on Craigie-burn. 2 



R. B 



Farewell ! God bless you I 



CCCXT. 
STo J&r. Thomson. 



[Of this letter Dr, Currie writes, " the poet must have been tipsy 
indeed to abuse sweet Ecclefechan at this rate ," it is one of the pret- 
tiest of our Annandale villages, and the birth-place of that distL-i- 
guished biographer.! 

Ecclefechan, 1th February ', 1795. 
Mt dear Thomson, 
You cannot have any idea of the predicament 
in which I write to you. In the course of my 



I &>r. K CCLXJV 



? SoncrCCXLV. 



384 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



iuty as supervisor, (in which capacity I have 
acted of late,) I came yesternight to this un- 
fortunate, wicked little" village. I have gone 
forward, but snows of ten feet deep, have 
impeded my progress: I have tried to "gae 
back the gate I cam again," but the same ob- 
stacle has shut me up within insuperable bars. 
To add to my misfortune, since dinner, a scraper 
has been torturing catgut, in sounds that would 
have insulted the dying agonies of a sow under 
the hands of a butcher, and thinks himself, on 
that very account, exceeding good company. In 
fact, I have been in a dilemma, either to get 
drunk, to forget these miseries ; or to hang my- 
self to get rid of them : like a prudent man (a 
character congenial to my every thought, word, 
and deed) I, of two evils, have chosen the least, 
and am very drunk, at your service ! 

I wrote you yesterday from Dumfries. I had 
not time then to tell you all I wanted to say ; 
and, Heaven knows, at present I have not ca- 
pacity. 

Do you know an air — I am sure you must 
know it — " We'll gang nae mair to yon town ?" 
I think, in slowish time, it would make an ex- 
cellent song. I am highly delighted with it ; 
and if you should think it worthy of your atten- 
tion, I have a fair dame in my eye to whom I 
would consecrate it. 

As I am just going to bed, I wish you a good 
night. 

* KB. 



CCCXII 



[The song of Caledonia, in honour of Mrs. Burns, was accompa- 
nied by two others in honour of the poet's mistress : the muse was 
high in song, and used few words in the letter which enclosed them.] 



May, 1795. 

O stay, sweet warbling woodlark, stay ! * 

Let me know, your very first leisure, how you 
like this song. 

Long, long the night. 2 

How do you like the foregoing ? The Irish 
air, " Humours of Glen," is a great favourite of 
mine, and as, except the silly stuff in the " Poor 
Soldier," there are not any decent verses for it, 
I have written for it as follows : — 

Their groves o' sweet myrtle let foreign lands 
reckon. 3 



Let me hear from you. 



R.B. 



CCCXIII 

f^o #£r. ©bom-son. 



[The poet calls for praise i 
always ready.] 



s letter, a species of coin which Is 



How cruel are the parents. 1 

Mark yonder pomp of costly fashion. 8 

Well, this is not amiss. You see how I an- 
swer your orders — your tailor could not be more 
punctual. I am just now in a high fit for poetisingj 
provided that the strait-jacket of criticism don't 
cure me. If you can, in a post or two, adminis- 
ter a little of the intoxicating potion of your 
applause, it will raise your humble servant's 
phrensy to any height you want. I am at this 
moment "holding high converse" with the 
muses, and have not a word to throw away on 
such a prosaic dog as you are. 

R. B. 



CCCX1V. 

©0 i$tr. ^Thomson. 



[Thomson at this time sent the drawing to Burns in which David 
Allan sought to embody the " Cotter's Saturday Night :" it display* 
at once the talent and want of taste of the ingenious artist] 



May, 1795. 

Ten thousand thanks for your elegant present 
— though I am ashamed of the value of it being 
bestowed on a man who has not, by any means, 
merited such an instance of kindness. I have 
shown it to two or three judges of the first abili- 
ties here, and they all agree with me in classing 
it as a first-rate production. My phiz is sae 
kenspeckle, that the very joiner's apprentice, 
whom Mrs. Burns employed to break up the 
parcel (I was out of town that day) knew it at 
once. My most grateful compliments to Allan, 
who has honoured my rustic music so much with 
his masterly pencil. One strange coincidence is, 
that the little one who is making the felonious 
attempt on the cat's tail, is the most striking 
likeness of an ill-deedie, d — n'd, wee, rumble- 
gairie urchin of mine, whom from that propen- 
sity to witty wickedness, and manfu' mischief, 
which, even at twa days' auld, I foresaw would 
form the striking features of his disposition, I 
named Willie Nicol, after a certain friend of 
mine, who is one of the masters of a grammar- 
school in a city which shall be nameless. 

Give the enclosed epigram to my much 



• S^CCXLIX 



UF ROIJRRT BUKNS. 



JJ&5 



valued friend Cunningham, and tell him, that 
on Wednesday I go to visit a friend of fiis, 
to whom his friendly partiality in speaking of 
me in a manner introduced me — I mean a well- 
known military and literary character, Colonel 
Dirom. 

You do not tell me how you liked my two 
last songs. Are they condemned ? 

R. B. 



cccxv. 

To i&r. flT&omgon. 



; 111 allusion to the preceding letter, Thomson says to Durns, " You 
feally make me blush when you tell me you have not merited the 
drawing from me." The " For a* that and a' that," which went 
with this letter was, it is believed, the composition of Mrs. Riddel.] 



In " Whistle, and I'll come to ye, my lad," 
the iteration of that line is tiresome to my ear. 
Here goes what I think is an improvement : — 

Oh whistle, and I'll come to ye, my lad ; 
Oh whistle, and I'll come to ye, my lad ; 
Tho' father and mother and a' should gae mad, 
Thy Jeanie will venture wi' ye, my lad. 

In fact, a fair dame, at whose shrine I, the 
priest of the Nine, offer up the incense of Par- 
nassus — a dame whom the Graces have attired 
in witchcraft, and whom the Loves have armed 
with lightning — a fair one, herself the heroine of 
the song, insists on the amendment, and dispute 
her commands if you dare ! 

This is no my ain lassie, 1 &c. 

Do you know that you have roused the tor- 
pidity of Clarke at last ? He has requested me 
to write three or four songs for him, which he is 
to set to music himself. The enclosed sheet 
contains two songs for him, which please to pre- 
sent to my valued friend Cunningham. 

I enclose the sheet open, both for your inspec- 
tion, and that you may copy the song " Oh bon- 
nie was yon rosy brier." I do not know whether 
I am right, but that song pleases me ; and as it 
is extremely probable that Clarke's newly-roused 
■celestial spark will be soon smothered in the 
fogs of indolence, if you like the song, it may go 
as Scottish verses to the air of " I wish my love 
was in a mire ;" and poor Erskine's English 
lines may follow. 

I enclose you a "For a' that and a' that," 
which was never in print : it is a much superior 
song to mine. I have been told that it was 
composed by a lady, and some lines written on 
the blank leaf of a copy of the last edition of my 
poems, presented to the lady whom, in so many 
fictitious reveries of passion, but with the most 



ardent sentiments of real friendship, I have so 
often sung under the name of Ohlorii : — 

To.Chloris.' 



line bagatelle de I'amitiL 



CoiLA. 

R. B. 



CCCXVI. 
To 0tx. Thomson. 



fin the double service of poesie and music »he poet had to sing of 
pangs which he never endured, from beauties to whom lie had never 
spoken.] 



Forlorn my love, no comfort near, <tc. 2 

How do you like the foregoing ? I have writ- 
ten it within this hour : so much for the speed 
of my Pegasus ; but what say you to his bottom ? 

R. B. 



CCCXVTI. 
£To Jttr. Thomson. 



[The unexampled brevity of Burns's letters, and thcextraonlinan 
flow and grace of his songs, towards the close of his life, have noi 
now for the first time been remarked.] 



Last May a braw wooer. 3 
Why, why tell thy lover. 4 

Such is the peculiarity of the rhythm of tlm 
air, that I find it impossible to make anothei 
stanza to suit it. 

I am at present quite occupied with the charnv 
ing sensations of the toothache, so have not a 
word to spare. 

R. B. 



CCCXVIII. 

To JWto. ft total. 

Supposes himself to be writing from the dead to the 
living. 



[Ill health, poverty, a sense of dependence, witn the much he had 
deserved of his country, and the little he had obtained, were all at this 
time press'ng on the mind of Burns, and inducing him to forget whM 
was due to himself as well as to the couttesies of life.] 



Madam, 

I dare say that this is the first epistle you 

ever received from this nether world. I write 

you from the regions of Hell, amid the horrors 

of the damned. The time and the manner of my 



i Poems, No. CXL VI. 
J SongCCLIX. 



2 Song fX'LY ill. 
« Song CCJA. 



38fi 



G EN ERA L CO R KKSl'ON DENT i 



Leaving yoiir earth I do not exactly know, as I 
took in y departure in the heat of a fever of in- 
toxication contracted at your too hospitable 
mansion ; but, on my arrival here, I was fairly 
tried, and sentenced to endure the purgatorial 
tortures of this infernal confine for the space of 
ninety-nine years, eleven months, and twenty- 
nine days, and all on account of the impropriety 
of my co duct yesternight under your roof. 
Here am I, laid on a bed of pitiless furze, with 
my aching head reclined on a pillow of ever- 
piercing tli ra. while an infernal tormentor, 
wrinkled, and old, and cruel, his name I think 
is Recollection, with a whip of scorpions, forbids 
peace or rest to approach me, and keeps anguish 
eternally awake. Still, Madam, if I could in 
any measure be reinstated in the good opinion 
of the fair circle whom my conduct last night so 
much injured, I think it would be an alleviation 
to my torments. For this reason I trouble you 
with this letter. To the men of the company I 
will make no apology. — Your husband, who in- 
sisted on my drinking more than I chose, has no 
right to blame me ; and the other gentlemen 
were partakers of my guilt. But to you, Madam, 
I have much to apologize. Your good opinion I 
valued as one o the greatest acquisitions I had 
made on earth, and I was truly a beast to forfeit 

it. There was a Miss I too, a woman of 

fine sense, gentle and unassuming manners — do 
make on my part, a miserable d-mned wretch's 

best apology to her. A Mrs. G , a charming 

woman, did me the honour to be prejudiced in 
my favour; this makes me hope that I have not 
outraged her beyond all forgiveness. — To all the 
other ladies please present my humblest contri- 
tion for my conduct, and my petition for their 
gracious pardon. all ye powers of decency 
and decorum ! whisper to them that my errors, 
though great, were involuntary — that an intoxi- 
cated man is the vilest of beasts — that it was 
not in my nature to be brutal to any one— that 
to be rude to a woman, when in my senses, 
was impossible with me — but — 

****** 

Regret ! Remorse ! Shame ! ye three hell- 
hounds that ever dog my steps and bay at my 
heels, spare me ! spare me ! 

Forgive the offences, and pity the perdition of, 
Madam, your humble slave. 

R. B. 



CCCXIX. 

2To Jite. &toDd 



(Mrs. Riddel, St is said, possessed many more of the poet's letters 
than are printed— she sometimes read them to friends who could feel 
.'heir wit. and, like herself, make allowance for their freedom.] 



Dumfries, 1795. 
Ma. Burws's compliments to Mrs. Riddel- 
is much obliged to her for her polite attention in 



sending him the book. Owing to Mr. B. 's being 
at present acting as supervisor of excise, a de- 
partment that occupies his every hour of the 
day, he has not that time to spare which is 
necessary for any belle-lettre pursuit ; but, as 
he will, in a week or two, again return to his 
wonted leisure, he will then pay that attention 
to Mrs. R.s beautiful song, "To thee, loved 
Nith" — which it so well deserves. When 
"Anacharsis' Travels" come to hand, which 
Mrs. Riddel mentioned as her gift to the public 
library, Mr. B. will thank her for a reading of it 
previous to her sending it to the library, as it is 
a book Mr. B. has never seen : he wishes to have 
a longer perusal of them than the regulations of 
the library allow. 

Friday Eve. 
P. S. Mr. Burns will be much obliged to Mrs. 
Riddel if she will favour him with a perusal of 
any of her poetical pieces which he may not have 
seen. 

R. B. 



ccexx. 

[That Miss Fontenelle, as an actress, did not deserve the high 
praise which Burns bestows may be guessed : the lines to which he 
alludes were recited by the lady on her benefit-night, and are printed 
among his Poems.] 

Dumfries, December, 1705. 
Mao am, 

In such a bad world as ours, those who add 
to the scanty sum of our pleasures, are positively 
our benefactors. To you, Madam, on our hum- 
ble Dumfries boards, I have been more indebted 
for entertainment than ever I was in prouder 
theatres. Your charms as a woman would en- 
sure applause to the most indifferent actress, 
and your theatrical talents would ensure admi- 
ration to the plainest figure. This, Madam, is 
not the unmeaning or insidious compliment of 
the frivolous or interested ; I pay it from the 
same honest impulse that the sublime of nature 
excites my admiration, or her beauties give me 
delight. 

Will the foregoing lines be of any service to 
you in your approaching benefit-night ? If they 
will I shall be prouder of my muse than ever. 
They are nearly extempore : I know they have 
no great merit ; but though they should add but 
little to the entertainment of the evening, they 
give me the happiness of an opportunity to de- 
clare how much I have the honour to be, &c. 

R. B, 



OK ROBERT BURNS. 



o*-7 



CCCXXI 

Za i&v% JDunlop. 



(Of the sweet girl to whom Hums alludes in this letter lie \\ 
paved during this year her death pressed surely on him.] 



15th December, 1795. 
My dear Friend, 

As I am in a complete Decemberish humour, 
gloomy, sullen, stupid, as even the deity of D ill- 
ness herself could wish, I shall not drawl out a 
heavy letter with a number of heavier apologies 
for my late silence. Only one I shall mention, 
because I know you will sympathize in it : these 
four months, a sweet little girl, my youngest 
child, has been so ill, that every day, a week or 
less, threatened to terminate her existence. 
There had much need be many pleasures an- 
nexed to the states of husband and father, for, 
God knows, they have many peculiar cares. I 
cannot describe to you the anxious, sleepless 
hours these ties frequently give me. I see a 
train of helpless little folks ; me and my exer- 
tions all their stay : and on what a brittle thread 
does the life of man hang ! If I am nipt off at 
the command of fate ! even in all the vigour of 
manhood as I am — such things happen every 
day — gracious God ! what would become of my 
little nock ! 'Tis here that I envy your people 
of fortune. — A father on his death-bed, taking 
an everlasting leave of his children, has indeed 
woe enough ; but the man of competent fortune 
leaves his sons and daughters independency and 
friends ; while I — but I shall run distracted if I 
think any longer on the subject ! 

To leave talking of the matter so gravely, I 
shall sing with the old Scots ballad. 

** O that I had ne'er been married, 

I would never had nae care ; 

Now I've gotten wife and bairns. 

The}' cry crowdie ! evermair 

Crowdie ! ance ; crowdie ! twice ; 

Crowdie ! three times in a day; 
An ye, crowdie ! ony mair, 

Ye'll crowdie ! a' my meal away." — 



December, 24th. 
"We have had a brilliant theatre here this sea- 
son ; only, as all other business does, it experi- 
ences a stagnation of trade from the epidemical 
complaint of the country, want of cash. I men- 
tioned our theatre merely to lug in an occasional 
Address which I wrote for the benefit-night of 
one of the actresses, and which is as follow : — 



ADDRESS, 



Still anxious to secure your partial favour, &c. 

25th, Christmas Morning. 
This, my much-loved friend, is a morning of 
*ishes — accept, mine — so heaven hear me as they 



are sincere ! that blessings may attend youi 
steps, and affliction know you not ! In the 
charming words of my favourite author, " The 
Man of Feeling," ".May the Great Spirit bear 

up the weight of thy grey hairs, and blunt the 
arrow that brings them rest!" 

Now that I talk of authors, how do you like 
Cowper ? Is not the " Task" a glorious poem ? 

The religion of the "Task," hating a few scraps 
of Calvinistic divinity, is the religion of God and 
nature; the religion that exalts, that ennobles 
man. Were not you to send me your " Zeluco," 
in return for mine ? Tell me how you like my 
mirks and notes through the book. I would 
not give a farthing for a book, unless I wore at 
liberty to blot it with my criticisms. 

I have lately collected, for a friend's pern ;il, 
all my letters ; I mean those which I first 
sketched, in a rough draught, and afterwards 
wrote out fair. On looking over some old musty 
papers, which, from time to time, 1 had parcelled 
by, as trash that were scarce worth preserving, 
and which yet at the same time 1 did not care 
to destroy ; I discovered many of these rude 
sketches, and have written, and am writing 
them out, in a bound MS. for my friend's library. 
As I wrote always to you the rhapsody of the 
moment, I cannot find a single scroll to you, 
except one about the commencement of our 
acquaintance. If there were any possible con- 
veyance, I would send you a perusal of my 
book. 

R. B. 



CCCXXII. 
€o 0ix. &taantar iFin&toier, 

SUPERVISOR Or EXCISE, DUMFRIES. 



[The person to whom this letter is addressed, is the same who lately 
denied that Hums was harshly used by the Board of Excise : but 
those, and they are many, Mho believe what the poet wrote to fclrs. 
kine, of Mar, eannot agree with Mr. Findlater.l 

Sir, 
Enclosed are the two schemes. I would not 
have troubled you with the collector's one, but 
for suspicion lest it be not right. Mr. Erskine 
promised me to make it right, if you will have 
the goodness to show him how. As I have no 
copy of the scheme for myself, and the altera 
tions being very considerable from what it was 
formerly, I hope that I shall have access to this 
scheme I send you, when I come to face up my 
new books. So much for schemes. — And that no 
scheme to betray a friend, or mislead a stran- 
ger ; to seduce a young girl, or rob a hen- 
roost ; to subvert liberty, or bribe au ex- 
ciseman ; to disturb the general assembly, 
or annoy a gossipping ; to overthrow the credit 
of orthodoxy, or the authority of old oOxgs ; 
to oppose your icishes, or frustrate my hoj>es— 
may prosper — is the sincere -wish and prayer of 

K. B 



388 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



CCCXX [II. 

Zo the itMtot of tfje j^onttng ©fironkU. 



[ Cromek says, when a neighbour complained that his copy of the 
Morning Chronicle was not regularly delivered to him from the 
post-office the poet wrote the following indignant letter to Perry on 
a leaf of his excise-book, but befcre it went to the post he reflected and 
recalled it.] 



Sir, 



Dumfries, 1795. 



You will see by your subscribers' list, that I 
have been about nine months of that number. 

I am sorry to inform you, that in that time, 
seven or eight of your papers either have never 
been sent me, or else have never reached me. 
To be deprived of any one number of the first 
newspaper in Great Britain for information, 
ability, and independence, is what I can ill brook 
and bear ; but to be deprived of that most ad- 
mirable oration of the Marquis of Lansdowne, 
when he made the great though ineffectual 
attempt (in the language of the poet, I fear too 
true,) " to save a sinking state" — this was a 
loss that I neither can nor will forgive you. — 
That paper, Sir, never reached me ; but I de- 
mand it of you. I am a Briton ; and must be 
interested in the cause of liberty : — I am a 
man ; and the rights of human nature can- 
not be indifferent to me. However, do not let 
me mislead you : I am not a man in that situa- 
tion of life, which, as your subscriber, can be of 
any consequence to you, in the eyes of those to 
whom situation or life alone is the criterion 
of man. — I am but a plain tradesman, in this 
distant, obscure country town t but that hum- 
ble domicile in which I shelter my wife and 
children is the Castellum of a Briton; and 
that scanty, hard-earned income which supports 
them is as truly my property, as the most mag- 
nificent fortune, of the most puissant member 
of your house of nobles. 

These, Sir, are my sentiments ; and to them I 
subscribe my name : and were I a man of ability 
and consequence enough to address the pubiic, 
with that name should they appear. 
I am, &c. 



CCCXXIV 

2To #tr. ?0ctcn, 

or heron. 



TOf Patrick Heron, of Kerroughtree, something has been said ii 
.he notes cm the Ballads which bear his name.] 



Sir, 



Dumfries, 1704, or 1795. 



I enclose you some copies of a couple of 
political ballads; one of which, I believe, you 
have neve? eoen. Would to Heaven I could 



make you master of as many votes in the Stew- 
artry — but — 

" Who does the utmost that he can, 
Does well, acts nobly, angels could no more." 

In order to bring my humble efforts to bear 
with more effect on the foe, I have privately 
printed a good many copies of both ballads, and 
have sent them among friends all about the 
country. 

To pillory on Parnassus the rank reprobation 
of character, the utter dereliction of all principle, 
in a profligate junto which has not only out- 
raged virtue, but violated common decency; 
which, spurning even hypocrisy as paltry ini- 
quity below their daring ; — to unmask their 
flagitiousness to the broadest day — to deliver 
such over to their merited fate, is surely not 
merely innocent, but laudable ; is not only pro- 
priety, but virtue. You have already, as your 
auxiliary, the sober detestation of mankind on 
the heads of your opponents ; and I swear by 
the lyre of Thalia to muster on your side all the 
votaries of honest laughter, and fair, candid 
ridicule ! 

I am extremely obliged to you for your kind 
mention of my interests in a letter which Mr. 
Syme showed me. At present my situation in 
life must be in a great measure stationary, at 
least for two or three years. The statement is 
this— I am on the supervisors' list, and as we 
come on there by precedency, in two or three 
years I shall be at the head of that list, and 
be appointed of course. Then, a friend might 
be of service to me in getting me into a 
place of the kingdom which I would like. A 
supervisor's income varies from about a hun- 
dred and twenty to two hundred a year; 
but the business is an incessant drudgery, 
and would be nearly a complete bar to every 
species of literary pursuit. The moment I am 
appointed supervisor, in the common routine, I 
may be nominated on the collector's list ; and 
this is always a business purely of political pa- 
tronage. A collectorship varies much, from 
better than two hundred a year to near a thou- 
sand. They also come forward by precedency 
on the list ; and have, besides a handsome in- 
come, a life of complete leisure. A life of lite- 
rary leisure with a decent competency, is the 
summit of my wishes. It would be the prudish 
affectation of silly pride in me to say that I do 
not need, or would not be indebted to apolitical 
friend ; at the same time, Sir, I by no means lay 
my affairs before you thus, to hook my depen- 
dant situation on your benevolence. If, in my 
progress of life, an opening should occur where 
the good offices of a gentleman of your public- 
character and political consequence might bring 
me forward, I shall petition your goodness with 
the same frankness as I now do myself the ho- 
nour to subscribe myself, 

B. B. 



OF ROHKKT W7RNS. 



38!> 



occxxv. 

Za ittrsi. Dunlop, 

1ST LONDON. 



(In the correspondence of the poet with Mrs. Dunlop he rarely 
mentions Thomson's Collection of Songs, though his heart was set 
much upon it: in the Dunlop library there are many letters from the 
poet, it is said, which have not been published.J 



Dumfries, 20^ December, 1795. 

I have been prodigiously disappointed in this 
London journey of yours. In the first place, 
when your last to me reached Dumfries, I was 
in the country, and did not return until too late 
to answer your letter ; in the next place, I 
thought you would certainly take this route ; 
and now I know not what is become of you, or 
whether this may reach you at all. God grant 
that it may find you and yours in prospering 
health and good spirits ! Do let me hear from 
you the soonest possible. 

As I hope to get a frank from my friend Cap- 
tain Miller, I shall every leisure hour, take up 
the pen, and gossip away whatever comes first, 
prose or poetry, sermon or song. In this last 
article I hav*» abounded of late. I have often 
mentioned to you a superb publication of Scot- 
tish songs which is making its appearance in 
your great metropolis, and where I have the 
honour to preside over the Scottish verse, as no 
less a personage than Peter Pindar does over 
the English. 

December 29th. 
Since I began this letter, I have been appointed 
to act in the capacity of supervisor here, and I 
assure you, what with the load of business, and 
what with that business being new to me, I could 
scarcely have commanded ten minutes to have 
spoken to you, had you been in town, much less 
to have written you an epistle. This appoint- 
ment is only temporary, and during the illness 
of the present incumbent ; but I look forward to 
an early period when f shall be appointed in full 
form : a consummation devoutly to be wished ! 
My political sins seem to be forgiven me. 

This is the season (New-year's -day is now my 
date) of wishing ; and mine are most fervently 
offered up for you ! May life to you be a positive 
blessing while it lasts, for your own sake; and 
that it may yet be greatly prolonged, is my wish 
for my own sake, and for the sake of the rest of 
your friends! What a transient business is 
life ! Very lately I was a boy ; but t'other day 
I was a young man ; and I already begin to feel 
the rigid fibre and stiffening joints of old age 
coming fast o'er my frame. With all my follies 
of youth, and I fear, a few vices of manhood, 
still I congratulate myself on having had in 
early days religion strongly impressed on my 
mind. I have nothing to say to any one as to 
which sect he belongs to, or what creed he be- 
lieves ; but I look on the man, who is firmly 



persuaded of infinite wisdom and goodness, hi,- 
pet-intending and directing every circumstance 
Unit can happen in Ids lot— I felicitate Midi a 

man as having a solid foundation for Ids mental 

enjoyment; a firm prop and sun: stay, in the 

hour of difficulty, trouble, and distress { and a 
never-failing anchor of hope, when lie looks be- 
yond the grave. 

January \2th. 
You will have seen our worthy and ingenious 
friend, the Doctor, long ere this. 1 hope he ifl 
well, and beg to be remembered to him. I have 

just been reading over again, 1 dare say for the 
hundred and fiftieth time, his View of Society and 
Manners; and still I read it with delight. J I is 
humour is perfectly original — it is neither the 
humour of Addison, nor Swift, nor Sterne, nor 
of any body but Dr. Moore. By the bye, you 
have deprived me of Zeluco, remember that, 
when you are disposed to rake up the sins of my 
neglect from among the ashes of my laziness. 

He has paid me a pretty compliment, by quot 
ing me in his last publication. 1 

****** 

B. n. 



CCCXXVI. 

ADDRESS OF THE SCOTCH DISTILLERS 

So tiie fttgfct P?on. mUUam tfiu 



[This ironical letter to the prime minister was found among t/ie 
papers of Burns. J 



While pursy burgesses crowd your gate, 
sweating under the weight of heavy addresses, 
permit us, the quondam distillers in that part 
of Great Britain called Scotland, to approach 
you, not with venal approbation, but with fra- 
ternal condolence ; not as what you are just 
now, or for some time have been; but as what, 
in all probability, you will shortly be. — We 
shall have the merit of not deserting our 
friends in the day of their calamity, and you 
will have the satisfaction of perusing at least one 
honest address. You are well acquainted with 
the dissection of human nature; nor do you 
need the assistance of a fellow-creature's bosom 
to inform you, that man is always a selfish, often 
a perfidious being. — This assertion, however the 
hasty conclusions of superficial observation may 
doubt of it, or the raw inexperience of youth 
may deny it, those who make the fatal experi- 
ment we have done, will feel. — You are a states- 
man, and consequently are not ignorant of tne 
traffic of these corporation compliments. — The 
little great men who drives the borough to 
market, and the very great man who buys the 
borough in that market, they two do the whole 



390 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



business; and yon well know tliey, likewise, 
have their price. With that sullen disdain 
winch you can so well assume, rise, illustrious 
Sir, and spurn these hireling efforts of venal 
stupidity. At Lest they are the compliments of a 
man's friends on the morning of his execution : 
they take a decent farewell, resign you to your 
fate, and hurry away from your approaching 
hour. 

If fame say true, and omens he not very much 
mistaken, you are about to make your exit from 
that world where the sun of gladness gilds the 
paths of prosperous man : permit us, great Sir, 
with the sympathy of fellow-feeling to hail your 
passage to the realms of ruin. 

Whether the sentiment proceed from the 
selfishness or cowardice of mankind is immate- 
rial; hut to point out to a child of misfortune 
those who are still more unhappy, is to give him 
some degree of positive enjoyment. In this 
light, Sir, our downfall may be again useful to 
you :- though not exactly in the same way, it 
is not perhaps the first time it has gratified 
your feelings. It is true, the triumph of your 
evil star is exceedingly despiteful. — At an age 
when others are the votaries of pleasure, or un- 
derlings in business, you had attained the high- 
est wish of a British statesman ; and with the 
ordinary date of human life, what a prospect was 
before you ! Deeply rooted in Royal favour, you 
overshadowed the land. The birds of passage, 
which follow ministerial sunshine through every 
clime of political faith and manners, flocked to 
your branches ; and the beasts of the field (the 
lordly possessors of hills and valleys) crowded 
under your shade. " But behold a watcher, a 
holy one, came down from heaven, and cried 
aloud, and said thus: Hew down the tree, and 
cut off his branches ; shake off his leaves, and 
scatter his fruit ; let the beasts get away from 
under it, and the fowls from his branches !" A 
blow from an unthought-of quarter, one of those 
terrible accidents which peculiarly mark the 
hand of Omnipotence, overset your career, and 
laid all your fancied honours in the dust. But 
turn your eyes, Sir, to the tragic scenes of our 
fate: — an ancient nation, that for many ages 
had gallantly maintained the unequal struggle 
for independence with her much more powerful 
neighbour; at last agrees to a union which should 
ever after make them one people In consi- 
deration of certain circumstances, it was cove- 
nanted that the former should enjoy a stipulated 
alleviation in her share of the public burdens, 
particularly in that branch of the revenue called 
the Excise. This just privilege has of late 
given great umbrage to some interested, power- 
ful individuals of the more potent part of the 
empire, and they have spared no wicked pains, 
under insidious pretexts, to subvert what they 
dared not openly to attack, from the dread which 
they yet entertained of the spirit of their ancient 
enemies. 

In this conspiracy we fell; nor did we alone 
Ruifrr, our country was deeply wounded. A 



number of (we will say) respectable individuals 
largely engaged in trade, where we were not 
only useful, but absolutely necessary to our 
country in her dearest interests; we, with all 
that was near and dear to us, were sacrificed 
without remorse, to the infernal deity of politi- 
cal expediency ! We fell to gratify the wishes 
of dark envy, and the views of unpi-incipled am- 
bition ! Your foes, Sir, were avowed ; were 
too brave to take an ungenerous advantage; 
you fell in the face of day. — On the contrary, 
our enemies, to complete our overthrow, con- 
trived to make their guilt appear the villany of 
a nation. — Your downfall only drags with you 
your private friends and partizans : in our mi- 
sery are more or less involved the most nume- 
rous and most valuable part of the community — 
all those >vho immediately depend on the culti- 
vation of the soil, from the landlord of a pro- 
vince, down to his lowest hind. 

Allow us, Sir, yet further, just to hint at 
another rich vein of comfort in the dreary 
regions of adversity ;— the gratulations of an ap- 
proving conscience In a certain great assem- 
bly, of which you are a distinguished member, 
panegyrics on your private virtues have so often 
wounded your delicacy, that we shall not dip 
tress you with anything on the subject. There 
is, however, one part of your public conduct 
which our feelings will not permit us to pass in 
silence: our gratitude must trespass on your 
modesty; we mean, worthy Sir, your whole be- 
haviour to the Scots Distillers. — In evil hours, 
when obtrusive recollection presses bitterly on 
the sense, let that, Sir, come like an healing 
angel, and speak the peace to your soul which 
the world can neither give nor take away. 

We have the honour to be, 
Sir, 
Your sympathizing fellow-sufferers. 
And grateful humble Servants, 

Johk Barleycohn- Praises. 



cccxxvn. 

^o the ppcm, $h*ofco3t, batiks, ant) 2Tohm 
©dirndl of Shunfrte*. 



[The Provost and Bailies complied at once with the modest in- 
quest of the poet: both .Jackson and Staig, who were heads of tht 
town by turns, were men of taste and feeling.J 



Gentlkjien, 
The literary taste and liberal spirit of your 
good town has so ably filled the various depart- 
ments of your schools, as to make it a very great 
ohject for a parent to have his children educated 
in them. Still, to me, a stranger, with my largo 
family, and very stinted income, to give m« 
young ones that education I wish, at the high 



OF KDHKin BURNS. 



SIM 



school fees which a stranger pays, will bear haul 
upon me. 

Some years ago your good town did inc the 
honour of making me ah honorary burgess. — ■ 
Will you allow me to request that this mark of 
distinction may extend so far, as to put me on a 
footing of a real freeman of the town, in the 
schools ? 

If you are so very kind as to grant my re- 
quest, it will certainly be a constant incentive to 
me to strain every nerve where I can officially 
serve you ; and will, if possible, increase that 
grateful respect with which I have the honour 
to be, 

Gentlemen, 
Your devoted humble Servant, 

li.B. 



CCCXXVIII. 



[Mrs. Kiddel was, like Hums, a well-wisher to the great cause of 
it iman liberty, and lamented with him the excesses of the French 
Revolution.] 



Dumfries, 20th January, 1796. 

I cannot express my gratitude to you for al- 
lowing me a longer perusal of " Anacharsis." 
In fact, I never met with a book that hewitched 
me so much ; and I, as a member of the library, 
must warmly feel the obligation you have laid 
us under. Indeed to me the obligation is 
stronger than to any other individual of our 
society ; as " Anacharsis" is an indispensable 
desideratum to a son of the muses. 

The health you wished me in your morning's 
card, is, I think, flown from me for ever. I 
have not been able to leave my bed to-day 
till about an hour ago. These wickedly un- 
lucky advertisements I lent (I did wrong) to a 
friend, and I am ill able to go in quest of him. 

The muses have not quite forsaken me. The 
following detached stanza I intend to interweave 
in some disastrous tale of a shepherd. 

R.B. 



CCCXXIX 

2To J&i% I9unlop. 



have committed against bo highly-valued a friend 
[ am utterly at a losstoguei i AJas ! Madam, UJ 
can I afford} at this time, to be deprn ed of any of 
the .small remnant of my pleasures. 1 have 

lately drunk deep in the cup of affliction. The 
autumn robbed me of my only daughter and 
darling child, and that at a di tance too, ami so 
rapidly, as to put it out of my power to pay the 

last duties to her. I had scarcely begun to re- 
cover from that shock, when 1 became myself the 

victim of a mwt severe rheumatic fever, and long 
the die spun doubtful ; until after many weeks 
of a sick bed, it seems to have turned up life, 
and I am beginning to crawl across my room, 
and once indeed have been before my own door 
in the street 

" When pleasure fascinates the mental sight, 
Affliction purifies the visual ray, 
Religion hails the drear, the untried night, 

And shuts, for ever shuts ! lilt's doubtful day." 

R.B. 



[It seems that Mrs. Dunlop regarded the conduct of Bums, for nome 
months, with displeasure, and withheld or delayed her usual kind and 
charming comu.unications.] 



Dumfries o\st January, 1796. 
These many months you have been two 
packets ia my debt — what sin of ignorance I 



ccexxx. 

Zo $Ut. {Thomson. 



[Cromek informed me, on the authority of Mrs. Burns, that the 
" handsome, elegant present" mentioned in this letter, was a common 
worsted shawL ] 

February, 1700. 

Many thanks, my dear Sir, for your hand- 
some, elegant present to Mrs. Burns, and for 
my remaining volume of P. Pindar. Peter is a 
delightful fellow, and a first favourite of mine. 
I am much pleased with your idea of publishing 
a collection of our songs in octavo, with etchings. 
I am extremely willing to lend every assistance 
in my power. The Irish airs I shall cheerfully 
undertake the task of finding verses for. 

I have already, you know, equipt three with 
words, and the other day I strung up a kind of 
rhapsody to another Hibernian melody, which I 
admire much. 

Awa' wi' your witchcraft o' beauty's alarms. 

If this will do, you have now four of my Irish 
engagement. In my by-past songs I dislike 
one thing, the name Chloris — I meant it as the 
fictitious name of a certain lady : but, on second 
thoughts, it is a high incongruity to have a 
Greek appellation to a Scottish pastoral ballad. 
Of this, and some things else, in my next: 
I have more amendments to propose. ^ What 
you once mentioned of " flaxen locks" isjust: 
they cannot enter into an elegant description of 
beauty. Of this also again— God bless you ! 8 

R. 3. 



i SongCCLX'/l 
2 Our poet never explained whax ntane he wonio f 
for Chloris.- Mr.. Thomson. 



302 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



CCCXXXI. 



i It is seldom that painting speaks in the spirit of poetry: Bums 
perceive' 1 some of the blemishes of Allan's illustrations : but at that 
time little nature and less elegance entered into the embellishments 
of books.l 

April, 1796. 
Alas ! my dear Thomson, I fear it will be 
some time ere I tune my lyre again ! "By 
Babel streams I have sat and wept" almost ever 
since I wrote you last ; I have only known ex- 
istence by the pressure of the heavy hand of 
sickness, and have counted time by the reper- 
cussions of pain ! Rheumatism, cold, and fever 
have formed to me a terrible combination. I 
close my eyes in misery, and open them without 
hope. I look on the vernal day, and say with 
poor Fergusson, 

" Say wherefore has an all-indulgent heaven 
Light to the comfortless and wretched given f" 

This will be deli ^ered to you by Mrs. Hyslop, 
landlady of the Globe Tavern here, which for 
these many years has been my howff, and 
where our friend Clarke and I have had many a 
merry squeeze. I am highly delighted with 
Mr. Allan's etchings. " Woo'd an' married an' 
a'," is admirable ! The grouping is beyond all 
praise. The expression of the figures, conform- 
able to the story in the ballad, is absolutely 
faultless perfection. I next admire " Turnim- 
spike." What I like least is " Jenny said to 
Jockey." Besides the female being in her ap- 
pearance * * * *, if you take her stooping into 
the account, she is at least two inches taller 
than her lover. Poor Cleghorn ! I sincerely 
sympathise with him. Happy I am to think 
that he yet has a well-grounded hope of health 
and enjoyment in this world. As for me — but 
that is a sad subject I 

R.B. 



CCCXXXII. 
2F0 0Lx. ST&omgim. 



(The genius of the poet triumphed over pain and want,— his last 
songs are as tender and as true as any of his early compositions.] 

My dear Sir, 
I once mentioned to you an air which I have 
long admired — " Here's a health to them that's 
awa ; limey," but I forget if you took any notice 
of it. I have just been trying to suit it with 
verses, and I beg leave to recommend the air to 
your attention once more. I have only begun it. 

[Here follow the first three stanzas of the song, beginning, 

Here's a health to ane I loe dear, 

the fourth was found among the poet's MSS. after his death.] 

R. B. 

l Song CCLX VII. 



CCCXXXTII. 



[John Lewars, whom the poet introduces to Thomson, was a 
brother gauger, and a kind, warm-hearted gentleman ; Jessie Lewars 
was his sister, and at this time but in her teens.] 



This will be delivered by a Mr. Lewars, a young 
fellow of uncommon merit. As he will be a day 
or two in town, you will have leisure, if you 
choose, to write me by him : and if you have a 
spare half-hour to spend with him, I shall place 
your kindness to my account. I have no copies 
of the songs I have sent you, and I have 
taken a fancy to review them all, and pos- 
sibly may mend some of them; so when you 
have complete leisure, I will thank you for either 
the originals or copies. 1 I had rather be the 
author of five well-written songs than of ten 
otherwise. I have great hopes that the genial 
influence of the approaching summer will set 
me to rights, but as yet I cannot boast of re- 
turning health. I have now reason to believe 
that my complaint is a flying gout- —a sad busi- 
ness ! 

Do let me know how Cleghorn is, and remem- 
ber me to him. 

This should have been delivered to you a 
month ago. I am still very poorly, but should 
like much to hear from yon. 

R. B. 



CCCXXXIV. . 

Who had desired him to go to the Birth-Day Assembly 
on that day to show his t 



[This is the last letter wnicn the poet wrote to tnis accomp/isr 
lady.] 



Dumfries, 4th June, 1796. 

I am in such miserable health as to be utterly 
incapable of shewing my loyalty in any way. 
Rackt as I am with rheumatisms, I meet every 
face with a greeting, like that of Balak to 
Balaam — " Come curse me Jacob ; and come defy 
me Israel ! " So say I — Come curse me that east 
wind ; and come defy me the north ! Would 
you have me in such circumstances copy you 
out a love-song ? 

I may perhaps see you on Saturday, but I will 
not be at the ball. — Why should I ? " man de- 
lights not me, nor woman either !" Can you 
supply me with the song, " Let us all be unhappy 
together ?" — do if you can, and oblige, lepauvre 
miserable 

R,B. 

1 " It i* needless to say that thisrevisal Hurnsdid not live to per 
form."— Curbih. 



OF KOUKKT BCKNS. 



393 



cccxxxv. 

SCtfiOLStASTER, FORFAR. 



v Who will say, after reading the following distressing u 
Coaieto iig'it, that Uurns did not die in great oovert» , 



Dumfries, 26th June, 179G. 
My dear Clarke, 
Still, still the victim of affliction ! Were you 
to see the emaciated figure who now holds the 
pen to you, you would not know your old 
friend. Whether I shall ever get about again, 
is only known to Him, the Great Unknown, 
whose creature I am. Alas, CJarke ! I begin 
to fear the worst. 

As to my individual self, I am tranquil, and 
would despise myself if I were not ; but Burns's 
poor widow, and half-a-dozen of his dear little 
ones — helpless orphans ! — there I am weak as a 
woman's tear. Enough of this ! "lis half of my 
disease. 

I duly received your last, enclosing the note. 
It came extremely in time, and I am much 
obliged by your punctuality. Again I must re- 
quest you to do me the same kindness. Be so 
very good as, by return of post, to enclose me 
another note. I trust you can do it without in- 
convenience, and it will seriously oblige me. If 
I must go, I shall leave a few friends behind me, 
whom I shall regret while consciousness re- 
mains. I know I shall live in their remem- 
brance. Adieu, dear Clarke, that I shall ever 
6ee you again, is, I am afraid, highly improba- 
ble. 

R.B. 



CCCXXXVI. 
Co $&v. $ame$ ^nhugon, 

EDINBURGH. 



f " In this humble and delicate manner did poor Bums ask for a copy 
of a work of which he was principally the founder, and to which he had 
contributed gratuituously not less than one hundred and eighty- lour 
original, altered, and collected songs ! The editor has seen one hun- 
dred and eighty transcribed by his own hand, for the « Museum.'" — 
Cromek. Wiil it be believed that this " humble request" of Burns 
was not complied with ! The work was intended as a present to 
Jessie Lewars.] 



Dumfries, 4th July, 1796. 
How are you, my dear friend, and how comes 
on your fifth volume ? You may probably think 
that for some time past I have neglected you 
and your work; but, alas ! the hand of pain, and 
sorrow, and care has these many months lain 



heavy on me ! Personal and domestic affliction 
have almost entirely banished that alacrity and 
life with which I used to woo the rural muse of 
Scotia. In the meantime let us finish that we 
have so well begun. 

* # * * 

You are a good, worthy, honest fellow, and 
have a good right to live in this world — because 
you deserve it. Many a merry meeting this 
publication has given us, and possibly it may 
give us more, though, alas ! I fear it. Thifl pro- 
tracting, slow, consuming illness which hang! 
over me, will, I doubt much, my ever dear 
friend, arrest my sun before he has well reached 
his middle career, and will turn over the poet to 
other and far more important concerns than 
studying the brilliancy of wit, or the pathos of 
sentiment ! However, hope is the cordial of the 
human heart, and I endeavour to cherish it as 
well as I can. 

Let me hear from you as soon as convenient. 
— Your work is a great one ; and now that it is 
finished, I see, if we were to begin again, two or 
three things that might be mended ; yet I will 
venture to prophecy, that to future ages your 
publication will be the text-book and standard 
of Scottish song and music. 

J am ashamed to ask another favour of you, 
because you have been so very good already ; 
but my wife has a very particular friend of hers, 
a young lady who sings well, to whom she 
wishes to present the " Scots Musical Museum." 
If you have a spare copy, will you be so obliging 
as to send it by the very first fly, as I am anxious 
to have it soon. 

The gentleman, Mr. Lewars, a particular 
friend of mine, will bring out any proofs (it 
they are ready) or any message you may have. 
I am extremely anxious for your work, as in- 
deed I am for everything concerning you, and 
your welfare. 

Farewell, R. B. 

P.S. You should have had this when Mr. 
Lewars called on you, but his saddle-bags mis 
carried. 



CCCXXXYII. 
Co 0Lx. <£umungf)am. 



[Few of the last requests ot the poet were effectual : Clarke, it la 
beliei ed, did not send the second note he wrote for: Johnson did not 
send the copy of the Museum which he requested, and the Commis- 
sioners of Excise refused the continuance of his full salary. J 



Brow, Sea-bathing quarters, 1th July, 1796 

My dear Cunningham, 

I received yours here this moment, and am 

indeed highly nattered with the approbation of 

the literary circle you mention ; a literary 

6 fT 



394 



GENERAL COAKESPONDENCK 



circle inferior to none in the two kingdoms. 
Alas ! my friend, I fear the voice of the bard 
will soon be heard among you no more ! For 
these eight or ten months I have been ailing, 
sometimes bedfast and sometimes not; but these 
last three months I have been tortured with an 
excruciating rheumatism, which has reduced me 
to nearly the last stage. You actually would 
not know me if you saw me. — Pale, emaciated, 
and so feeble, as occasionally to need help from 
my chair — my spirits fled ! fled ! but I can no 
more on the subject — only the medical folks toll 
me that my last and only chance is bathing and 
country-quarters, and riding. — The deuce of the 
matter is this ; when an exciseman in off duty, 
his salary is reduced to 35/. instead of 50/. — 
What way, in the name of thrift, shall I main- 
tain myself, and keep a horse in country quarters 
— with a wife and five children at home on 35/. ? 
1 mention this, because I had intended to beg 
your utmost interest, and that of ail the friends 
you can muster, to move our commissioners of 
excise to grant me the full salary ; I dare say 
you know them all personally. If they do not 
grant it me, I must lay my account with an exit 
truly en po'tte, if I die not of disease, I must 
perish with hunger. 

I have sent you one of the songs; the other 
my memory does not serve me with, and I have 
no copy here; but I shall he at home soon, when 
I will send it you. — Apropos to being at home, 
Mrs. Burns threatens in a week or two, to add 
one more to my paternal charge, which, if of the 
right gender, I intend shall be introduced to the 
world by the respectable designation of Alexander 
Cunningham Burns. My last was James Glen- 
cairn, so you can have no objection to the com- 
pany of nobility. Farewell. 

R.B. 



CCCXXXVIII. 
fto JHr. Gilbert 32urn*. 



fj tiis letter contained heavy news for Gilh*-it Burns : the loss of a 
brother whom he dearly loved and admired, was not all, though 
the worst. J 

10th July, 1796. 
Dear Brother, 
It will be no very pleasing news to you to be 
lold that I am dangerously ill, and not likely to 
get better. An inveterate rheumatism has re- 
duced me to such a state of debility, and my ap- 
petite is so totally gone, that I can scarcely stand 
on my legs. I have been a week at sea-bathing, 
and 1 will continue there, or in a friend's house 
in the country, all the summer. God keep my 
wife and children: if I am taken from their 
head, they will be poor indeed. 1 have con- 
tracted one or two serious debts, partly from 



my illness these many months, partly from too 
much thoughtlessness as to expense, when I came 
to town, that will cut in too much on the little 
I leave them in your hands. Remember me to 
my mother. 

Yours, R. B. 



CCCXXXIX 
T o 0ix. ^ameg Armour. 

MASON, MAUCHLINE. 



[The original letter is now in a safe sanctuary, 
poet's son, Major James Glencairn Burns. J 



he nands of the 



July, \0th[lTJ6.] 
For Heaven's sake and as you value the wel- 
fare of your daughter and my wife, do, my dearest 
Sir, write to Fife, to Mrs. Armour to come if pos- 
sible. My wife thinks she can yet reckon upon 
a fortnight. The medical people order me,, 
as I value my existence, to fly to sea-bathing and 
country-quarters, so it is ten thousand chances 
to one that I shall not be within a dozen miles 
of her when her hour comes What a situa- 
tion for her, poor girl, without a single friend 
by her on such a serious moment. 

I have now been a week at salt-water, and 
though I think I have got some good by it, yet 
I have some secret fears that this business will 
be dangerous if not fatal. 

Your most affectionate son, 

R.B. 



CCCXL. 



[Sea-bathing, 1 have heard skilful men say, was injudicious: tut 
it was felt that Burns was on his way to the grave, and as he desired 
to try the influence of sea- water, as well as sta-air, his wishes were 
not opposed.] 

Brow, Thursday. 
My dearest Love, 
I delayed writing until I could tell you what 
effect sea-bathing was likely to produce. It 
would be injustice to deny that it has eased my 
pains, and I think has strengthened me; but 
my appetite is still extremely bad. No flesh 
nor fish can I swallow : porridge and milk 
are the only things I can taste. I am very happy 
to hear, by Miss Jess Lewars, that you are all 
well. My very best and kindest compliments to 
her, and tc all the children. 1 will see you on 
Sunday 

Your affectionate husband, 

R.B. 



OF ROBRRT IH'KNS. 



zm 



CCCXLI. 
€o Jftttf. JDunlop. 



[ u Thc poet had the pleasureot receving a satisfactory explanation 
of this lady's silent," savs Currie, " n,n4 "n assurance of the continu- 
ance of her friendship t/>lus widow and children.") 



Brow, Saturday y \2th July, 17'-'G. 

Madam, 
I have written you so often, without receiv- 
ing any answer, that I would not trouble you 
again, but for the circumstances in which I am. 
An illness which has long- hung about me, in all 
probability will speedily send me beyond that 
bourn whence no traveller returns. Your friend- 
ship, with, which for many years you honoured 
me, was a friendship, dearest to my soul. Your 
conversation, and especially your correspon- 
dence, were at once highly entertaining and in- 
structive. With what pleasure did I use to 
break up the seal! The remembrance yet 
adds one pulse more to my poor palpitating 
beart. 

Farewell ! ! ! 

R B. 



CCCXLII. 
^0 0lx. 2T!)om0on. 



[Thomson instantly complied with the dying poet's request, and 
transmitted the exact sum which he requested, viz. five pounds, by 
return of post : he was afraid of offending the pride of Burns, other- 
ivise hewould, he says, have sent a larger sum. He has not, however, 
told us how much he sent to the all but desolate widow and children, 
when death had released him from all dread of the poet's indigna- 



Brow, on the Solway-firlh, l2thJuly, 1790, 
After all my boasted independence, curst 
necessity compels me to implore you for five 
pounds. A cruel wretch of a haberdasher, to 
whom I owe an account, taking it into his head 
that I am dying, has commenced a process, 
and will infallibly put me into jail. Do, for 
God's sake, send me that sum, and that by re- 
turn of post. Forgive me this earnestness, but 
the horrors of a jail have made me half dis- 
tracted. I do not ask all this gratuitously 5 
for, upon returning health, I hereby promise 
and engage to furnish you with five pounds* 
worth of the neatest song-genius you have seen. 
I tried my hand on " Rothemurche" this morn- 
ing. The measure is so difficult that it is im- 



possible to infuse much genius Into tbe lines; 
they are on the other side. Forgive, forgive 
me ! 

Fairest maid on Devon's banks.' 



OCCXLIII. 

WHITER, MONTR.OSE. 



[The good, the warm-nenrted James Hu mess sent his cousin ten 
pounds on the 2f)th of July — he sent five pounds afterwards u, th« 
family, and offered to take one of the boys, and educate him in 
his own profession of a writer. All this was unknown to tlve trarU 
till lately.] 



Brow, \2tk Juiy. 
My deaii Cousin, 

When you offered me money assistance, little 
did I think I should want it so soon. A rascal 
of a haberdasher, to whom I owe a considerable 
bill, taking it into his head that I am dying, has 
commenced process against me, and will infalli- 
bly put my emaciated body into jail. Will you be 
so good as to accommodate me, and that by return 
of post, with ten pounds ? James ! did you 
know the pride of my heart, you would fee, 
doubly for me! Alas! I am not used to beg 
The worst of it is, my health was coming about 
finely; you know, and my physician assured me, 
that melancholy and low spirits are half my dis- 
ease; guess then my horrors since this business 
began. If I had it settled, I would be, I think, 
quite well in a manner. How sball I use the 
language to you, C do not disappoint me ! but 
strong necessity's curst command. 

I have been thinking over and over my bro- 
ther's affairs, and I fear I must cut him up ; but 
on this I will correspond at another time, par- 
ticularly as I shall [require] your advice. 

Forgive me for once more mentioning by 
return of post; — save me from the horrors of u 
jail ! 

My compliments to my friend James, and to 
all the rest. I do not know what I have -writ- 
ten. The subject is so horrible I dare not look 
it over again. 

FarewelL 

R.B. 



' ScngCCLXVIII. 



sm 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



CCCXL1V 



[James Gracie was, for some time, a banker's Dumfries : his eld- 
est son, a fine, high-spirited youtn, fell by a rifle "rail in America, 
when leading the troops to the attack on Washington.] 



Brow, Wednesday Morning? 16th July. 1798, 

My dear Sir, 
It would [be] doing high injustice to this 
place not to acknowledge that my rheumatisms 



have derived great benefits from it already; 
but, alas ! my loss of appetite still continues. I 
shall not need your kind offer this week, and I 
return to town the beginning of next week, it 
not being a tide-week. I am detaining a man in 
a burning hurry. 

So God bless you. 



REMARKS 



SCOTTISH SONGS AND BALLADS. 



I THE following Strictures on Soottish Song exist in the handwriting of Burns, in the interleaved copy of Johnson's Musical Museum, 
which the poet presented to Captain Riddel, of Friar's Carse; on the death of Mrs. Riddel, these precious volumes passed into the hands erf 
her neice, Eliza Bayley, of Manchester, who kindly permitted Mr. Cromek to transcribe and publish them in the Reliques.) 



THE HIGHLAND QUEEN. 

This Highland Queen, music and poetry, was 
composed by Mr. M 'Vicar, purser of the Solebay 
man-of-war. — This I had from Dr. Blacklock. 



BESS THE GAWKIE. 

This song shows that the Scottish muses did 
not all leave us when we lost Ramsay and Os- 
wald, as I have good reason to believe that the 
verses and music are both posterior to the 
days of these two gentlemen. It is a beautiful 
song, and in the genuine Scots taste. We have 
few pastoral compositions, I mean the pastoral 
of nature that are equal to this. 



OH, OPEN THE DOOR, LORD GREGORY. 

It is somewhat singular, that in Lanark, Ren- 
frew, Ayr, Wigton, Kirkcudbright, and Dum- 
fries-shires, there is scarcely an old song or tune 
which, from the title, &c. can be guessed to be- 
long to, or be the production of these countries. 
This, I conjecture, is one of these very few ; as 
the ballad, which is a long one, is called, both by 
tradition and in printed collections, " The lass 
Lochroyan," which I take to be Lochroyan, in 
Galloway. 



THE BANKS OF THE TWEED. 

This song is one of the many attempts that 
English composers have made to imitate the 
Scottish manner, and which I shall, in these 
strictures, beg leave to distinguish by the ap- 
pellation of Anglo-Scottish productions. The 



music is pretty good, but the verses are just 
above contempt. 



THE BEDS OF SWEET ROSES. 

This song, as far as I know, for the first time 
appears here in print. — When I was a boy, it 
■was a very popular song in Ayrshire. I re- 
member to have heard those fanatics, the Bu- 
chanites, sing some of their nonsensical rhymes, 
which they dignify with the name of hymns, to 
this air. 



ROSLIN CASTLE. 

These beautiful verses were the produc- 
tion of a Richard Hewit, a young man that 
Dr. Blacklock, to whom I am indebted for 
the anecdote, kept for some years as an amanu- 
ensis. I do not know who is the author of the 
second song to the tune. Tytler, in his amusing 
history of Scots music, gives the air to Oswald ; 
but in Oswald's own collection of Scots tunes, 
w r here he affixes an asterisk to those he himself 
composed, he does not make the least claim to 
the tune. 



SAW YE JOHNNIE CU3IMIN ? QUO' SHE. 

This song, for genuine humour in the verses, 
and lively originality in the air, is unparalleled. 
I take it to be very old. 



CLOUT THE CALDRON. 

A tradition is mentioned in the "Bef," 
that the second Bishop Chisholm, of Dunblane, 
used to say, that if he were going to be hanged, 
S r 



398 



REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. 



nothing would soothe his mind so much by the 
•way as to hear " Clout the Caldron" played. 

1 have met with another tradition, that the 
old song to this tune, 



was composed on one of the Kenmure family, in 
the cavalier times ; and alluded to an amour he 
luid, while under hiding, in the disguise of an 
itinerant tinker. The air is also known by 
the name of 

" The blacksmith and his apron," 

which from the rhythm, seems to have been a 
line of some old song to the tune. 



SAW YE MY PEGGY. 

This charming song is much older, and indeed 
superior to Ramsay's verses, " The Toast," as 
he calls them. There is another set of the 
words, much older still, and which I take to 
be the original one, but though it has a very 
great deal of merit, it is not quite ladies' read- 
ing. 

The original words, for they can scarcely be 
called verses, seem to be as follows ; a song fa- 
miliar from the cradle to every Scottish ear, 

" Saw ye my Maggie, 
Saw ye my Maggie, 
Saw ye my Maggie 
Linkin o'er the lea } 

High kilted was she, 
High kilted was she, 
High kilted was she, 

Her coat aboon her knee. 

What mark has your Maggie, 
What mark has your Maggie, 
What mark has your Maggie, 

That ane may ken her be ?" 

Though it by no means follows that the silliest 
verses to an air must, for that reason, be the 
original song ; yet I take this ballad, of which I 
have quoted part, to be old verses. The two 
songs in Ramsay, one of them evidently his own, 
are never to be met with in the fire-side circle 
of our peasantry ; while that which I take to 
be the old song, is in every shepherd's mouth. 
Ramsay, I suppose, had thought the old verses 
unworthy of a place in his collection. 



THE FLOWERS OF EDINBURGH. 

This song is one of the many effusions of 
Scots Jacobitism. — The title " Flowers of 
Edinburgh," has no manner of connexion with 
the present verses, so I suspect there has been 
an older set of words, of which the title is all 
that remains. 

By the bye, it is singular enough that the 
Scottish muses were all Jacobites. — I have 
paid more attention to every description of Scots 



songs than perhaps any body living has done, and 
I do not recollect one single stanza, or even the 
title of the most trifling Scots air, which has the 
least panegyrical reference to the families of 
Nassau or Brunswick ; while there are hundreds 
satirizing them. — This may be thought no pane- 
gyric on the Scot's Poets, but 1 mean it as such. 
For myself, I would always take it as a com- 
pliment to have it said, that my heart ran be- 
fore my head, — and surely the gallant though 
unfortunate house of Stewart, the kings of our 
fathers for so many heroic ages, is a theme * 



JAMIE GAY. 

Jamie Gay is another and a tolerable Anglo- 
Scottish piece. 



MY DEAR JOCKIE. 

Another Anglo-Scottish production. 



FYE, GAE RUB HER O ER WI STRAE. 

It is self-evident that the first four lines of 
is song are part of a song more ancient 



tl 

than Ramsay's beautiful verses which are an- 
nexed to them. As music is the language of 
nature ; and poetry, particularly songs, are al- 
ways less or more localized (if 1 may be allowed, 
the verb) by some of the modifications of time 
and place, this is the reason why so many of 
our Scots airs have outlived their original, and 
perhaps many subsequent sets of verses ; except 
a single name or phrase, or sometimes one or 
two lines, simply to distinguish the tunes by. 

To this day among people who know nothing 
of Ramsay's verses, the following is the song, 
and all the song that ever 1 heard : 



But gin ye meet a dirty hizzie, 
Fye, gae rub her o'er wi' strp e. 

F;re, gae rib her, rub her, rib her, 
F>e, gae rub her o'er wi' strae: 

An' gin ye meeta dirty hizzie, 
F/e, gae rub her o'er wi' strae." 



THE LASS O LI VISION. 

The old song, in three eight-line stanzas, is 
well known, and has merit as to wit and humour; 
but it is rather unfit for insertion. — It begins, 

" The Bonnie .ass o' Liviston, 

Her name ye ken, her name ye Ken, 
And she has written in her contract, 
To lie her lane, to lie her lane." 
&c. &c. 



KEMA11KS ON SCOTTISH BONO 



399 



THE LAST TIME t CAME C^ER THE MOOR. 

Ramsay found the first line of this song, which 
had been preserved as the title of the charming 
air, and then composed the rest of the verses to 
suit that line. This has always a finer eiFect 
than composing English words, or words with an 
idea foreign to the spirit of the old title. Where 
old titles of songs convey any idea at all, it will 
generally be found to be quite in the spirit of 
the air. 



jockie's gray breeks. 
Though this has certainly every evidence of 
being a Scottish air, yet there is a well-known 
tune and song in the North of Ireland, called 
u The Weaver and his Shuttle O," which, though 
Sung much quicker, is every note the very tune. 



THE HAPPY MARRIAGE. 

Another, but very pretty Anglo-Scottish 
piece. 



THE LASS OF PATIE S MILL. 

In Sinclair's Statistical Account of Scotland, 
this song is localized (a verb I must use for 
want of another to express my idea) somewhere 
in the north of Scotland, and likewise is claimed 
by Ayrshire. — The following anecdote I had 
from the present Sir William Cunningham of 
Robertland, who had it from the last John, Earl 
of Loudon. The then Earl of Loudon, and father 
to Earl John before mentioned, had Ramsay at 
Loudon, and one day walking together by the 
banks of Irvine water, near New-Mills, at a 
place called Patie's Mill, they were struck with 
the appearance of a beautiful country girl. His 
lordship observed that she would be a fine theme 
for a song — Allan lagged behind in returning to 
Loudon Castle, and at dinner produced this 
identical song. 



THE turnimspike. 
There is a stanza of this excellent song for 
local humour, omitted in this set — Where 
I have placed the asterisms. 

" They tak the horse then by te head, 
And tere tey mak her stan', man ; 
Me tell tan, me hae seen te day, 
Tey no had sic comman', man." 



HIGHLAND LADDIE. 

As this was a favourite theme with our later 
Scottish muses, there are several airs and songs 



of that name. That which I take to be the old- 
est, is to be found in the K Musical Museum," 
beginning, « 1 hae been at Crook ie-den." One 
reason for my thinking 80 is, that Oswald lias it 

in his collection, by the name <rf "The aula 

Highland Laddie." It i.s also known by the 
name of "Jinglan Johnie," which is a well- 
known song of four or five stanzas, and seems 
to be an earlier song than Jacobite times. Asa 
proof of this, it is little known to the peasantry by 
the name of " Highland Laddie;" while every 
body knows " Jinglan Johnie." The song be- 
gins 

" Jinglan John, the meit-klc man, 

He met \vi' a lass was blytheand borne." 

Another " Highland Laddie" is also in the 
" Museum," vol. v., which I take to be 1 1 
original, as he has borrowed the chorus—" O 
my bonie Highland lad," &c. It consists of 
three stanzas, besides the chorus ; and has hu- 
mour in its composition— it is an excellent, but 
somewhat licentious song. — It begins 

" As I cam o'er Cairney mount, 
And down among the blooming heather." 

This air, and the common " Highland Laddie," 
seem only to be different sets. 

Another " Highland Laddie," also in the 
" Museum," vol. v., is the tune of several Jaco- 
bite fragments. One of these old songs to it, 
only exists, as far as 1 know, in tnese four 
lines — 

" Where hae ye been a' day, 

Honie laddie, Highland laddie? 
Down the back o' Bell's brae, 
Courtin Maggie, courtin Maggie." 

Another of this name is Dr. Arne's beautiful 
air, called the new " Highland Laddie." 



THE gentle swain. 
To sing such a beautiful air to such execrable 
verses, is downright prostitution of common 
sense ! The Scots verses indeed are tolerable. 



HE STOLE MY TENDER HEART A WAV. 

This is an Anglo-Scottish production, but by 
no moans a bad one. 



FAIREST OF THE FAIR. 

It is too barefaced to take Dr. Percy's charm- 
ing song, and by means of transposing a few 
English words into Scots, to offer to pass it for a 
Scots song. — I was not acquainted with thp 
editor until the first volume was nearly finished, 
else, had I known in time, I would have pre- 
vented such an impudent absurdity. 



400 



REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. 



THE BLAITHRIE O T. 

The following is a set of this song, which was 
the earliest song I remember to have got by 
heart. When a child, an old woman sung it tc 
me, and I picked it up, every word, at first 
1) earing. 

" O Willy weel I mind, I lent you my hand 
To sing you a song which you did me command ; 
But my memory's so bad 1 had almost forgot 
That you called it the gear and the blaithrie o't.— 

I'll not sing about confusion, delusion or pride, 
I'D sing about a laddie was for a virtuous bride ; 
Foi virtue is an ornament that time will never rot, 
And preferable to gear and the blaithrie o't. — 

Tho' my lassie hae nae scarlets or silks to put on, 
We envy not the greatest that sits upon the throne ; 
I wad rather hae my lassie, tho' she mm in her smock, 
Than a princess wi' the gear and the blaithrie o'U — 

Tho' we hae nae horses or menzies at command, 

A'e will toil on our foot, and we'll work wi' our hand ; 

And when wearied without rest, we'll find it sweet in any spot, 

And we'll value not the gear and the blaithrie o't.— 

If we hae ony babies, we'll count them as lent; 

Hae we less, hae we mair, we will ay be content ; 

For they say they hae mair pleasure that wins but a groat, 

Than the miser wi' his gear and the blaithrie o't.— 

I'll not meddle wi' th' affairs of the kirk or the queen ; 
They're nae matters for a sang, let them sink, let them swim ; 
On your kirk I'll ne'er encroach, u »t 111 hold it still remote, 
Sae tak this for the gear and the blaithrie o't." 



MAY EVE, OR KATE OF ABERDEEN. 

" Kate of Aberdeen" is, I believe, the work 
of poor Cunningham the player ; of whom, the 
following anecdote, though told before, deserves 
a recital. A fat dignitary of the church coming- 
past Cunningham one Sunday, as the poor poet 
was busy plying a fishing-rod in some stream 
near Durham, his native country, his reverence 
reprimanded Cunningham very severely for 
such an occupation on such a day. The poor 
poet, with that inoffensive gentleness of man- 
ners which was his peculiar characteristic, re- 
plied, that he hoped God and his reverence 
would forgive his seeming profanity of that 
sacred day, " as he had no dinner to eat, but what 
lay at the bottom of that paoU" This, Mr. Woods, 
the player, who knew Cunningham well, and 
esteemed liim much, assured me was true. 



TWEED SIDE. 

In Ramsay's Tea-table Miscellany, he tells us 
that about thirty of the songs in that publication 
were the works of some young gentlemen of his 
acquaintance ; which songs are marked with the 
letters D.C.&c— Old Mr.Tytler, of Woodhouse- 
lee,tho worthy andabledefenderof the beauteous 
Queen of Scots, told me that the songs marked 
C, in the Tea-table, were the composition of a 



Mi. Crawfurd, of the house of Aclmames, who 
was afterwards unfortunately drowned coming 
from France. — As Ty tier was most intimately 
acquainted with Allan Ramsay, I think the an- 
ecdote may be depended on. Of consequence, 
the beautiful song of Tweed Side is Mr. Craw- 
furd's, and indeed does great honour to his poet- 
ical talents. He was a Robert Crawfurd ; the 
Mary he celebrates was a Mary Stewart, of the 
Castle-Milk family, afterwards married to a 
Mr. John Ritchie. 

I have seen a song, calling itself the original 
Tweed Side, and said to have been composed by 
a Lord Yester. It consisted of two stanzas, of 
which I still recollect the first — 



" When Maggy and 1 was acquaint, 

1 carried my noddle fu ? hie ; 
Nae lintwhite on a' the green plain, 

Nor gowdspink sae happy as me I 
But I saw her sae fair and I lo'ed : 

I woo'd, but I came nae great speed ; 
So now I maun wander abroad, 

And lay my banes far frae the Tweed. "- 



THE POSY. 

It appears evident to me that Oswald com- 
posed his Boslin Castle on the modulation of this 
air. — In the second part of Oswald's, in the 
three first bars, he has either hit on a wonderful 
similarity to, or else he has entirely borrowed 
the three first bars of the old air ; and the close 
of both tunes is almost exactly the same. The 
old verses to which it was sung, when I took 
down the notes from a country girl's voice, had 
no great merit. — The following is a specimen : 

" There was a pretty May, and a milkin she went ; 
Wi' her red rosy cheeks, and her coal black hair ; 
And she has met a young man a comin o'er the bent. 
With a double and adieu to thee, fair May. 

O where are ye gom, my ain pretty May, 

Wi' thy red rosy cheeks, and thy coal-black hair? 

Unto the yowes a milkin, kind sir, she says, 
With a double and adieu to thee, fair May. 

What if I gang alang with thee, my ain pretty May, 

Wi' thy red rosy cheeks, and thy coal-black hair; 
Wad I be aught the warse o' that, kind sir, shesaya, 
With a double and adieu to thee, fair May. 



MARY S DREAM. 

The Mary here alluded to is generally sup~ 
posed to be Miss Mary Macghie, daughter to 
the Laird of Airds, in Galloway. The poet was 
a Mr. John Lowe, who likewise wrote another 
beautiful song, called Pompey's Ghost. — I have 
seen a poetic epistle from him in North Ame- 
rica, where he now is, or lately was, to a lady in 
Scotland. — By the strain of the verses, it ap- 
peared that they allude to come love affair. 



REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. 



4Ci 



TiTE MAID THAT TEND3 THE OOATS. 

BY MK. DUDtiEON. 

Tn : a Dudgeon is a respectable farmer's son 
Berwickshire. 



1 WISH MY I.OVE WERE IN A MIRE. 

I sever heard more of the words of this old 
song than the title. 



ALLAN WATER. 

This Allan Water, which the composer of the 
music has honoured with the name of the air, I 
have been told is Allan Water, in Strathallan. 



THERE S NAE LUCK ABOUT THE HOUSE. 

This is one of the most beautiful songs in the 
Scots, or any other language. — The two lines, 

" And will 1 see his face again, 
And will I hear him speak i" 

as well as the two preceding ones, are unequalled 
almost by any thing I ever heard or read : and 
the lines, 

" The present 



; re worthy of the first poet. It is long posterior 
to Ramsay's days. About the year 1771, or 72, 
it came first on the streets as a ballad ; and I 
suppose the composition of the song was not 
much anterior to that period. 



TARRY WOO. 

This is a very pretty song ; but I fancy that 
the first half stanza, as well as the tune itself, 
are much older than the rest of the words. 



GRAMACHREE. 

The song of Gramachree was composed by a 
Mr. Poe, a counsellor at law in Dublin. This 
anecdote I had from a gentleman who knew the 
lady, the "Molly," who is the subject of the 
song, and to whom Mr. Poe sent the first ma- 
nuscript of his most beautiful verses. I do not 
remember any single line that has more true 
pathos than 

** How can she break chat honest heart that wears her in its core '" 

But as the song is Irish, it had nothing to do 
m this collection. 



THE COLLIER S BONNIE LASSIE. 

The first half stanza is much older than the 
days of Ramsay. — The old words began thus ; 



" The collier hai a dochter, nr,A, i the"* wonder bannk ! 

A laird he was that sought her, rich balth In laodi and wvnary. 
She wad n.-i hae a laird, nor wad the I e» btdy, 
Hut she wad hae a collier, the colour o' her ua/iuir. 



MY AIN KIND DEARIE — O. 

The old words of this song arc omitted hero, 
though much more beautiful than these inserted; 
which were mostly composed by poor Pergusson, 
in one of his merry humours. The old words 
began thus : 

" HI rawe theeo er the U-a-ri«, 

My ain kind dearie, (), 
111 rowe thee o'er the lea-rig, 

My ain kind dearie, O, 
Altho' the nik'ht were ne'er sac war 

And 1 were ne'er sae weary, () ; 
I'll rowe thee o'er the tea-rig, 

My ain kind dearie, O."— 



MARY SCOTT, THE FLOWER OF YARROW. 

Ma. Robertson, in his statistical account of 
the parish of Selkirk, says, that Mary Scott, the 
Flower of Yarrow, was descended from the Dry- 
hope, and married into the Harden family. Her 
daughter was married to a predecessor of the 
present Sir Francis Elliot, of Stobbs, and of the 
late Lord Heathfield. 

There is a circumstance in their contract of 
marriage that merits attention, and it strongly 
marks the predatory spirit of the times. The 
father-in-law agrees to keep his daughter for 
some time after the marriage ; for which the 
son-in-law binds himself to give him the profits 
of the first Michaelmas moon ! 



DOWN THE BURN, DAVIE. 

I have been informed, that the tune of 
" Down the burn, Davie," was the composition 
of Dayid Maigh, keeper of the blood slough 
hounds, belonging to the Laird of Riddel, in 
Tweeddale. 



BLINK O'ER THE BURN, SWEET BETTIII. 

The old words, all that I remember, are, — 

" Blink over the burn, sweet Betty, 

It is a cauld winter night t 
It rains, it hails, it thunders, 

The moon she gies nae light: 
It's a' for the sake o' sweet Hetty, 

That ever I tint my way ; 
Sweet, let me lie beyond thee 

Until it be break o' day.— 

O, Betty will bane my bread, 

And Beay will brew my ale, 
And Betty will be my love, 

When I come over the dale . 
Blink over the burn, sweet Betty, 

Blink over the burn to me, 
And while I hae life, dear ojxXc, 

II y ain sweet Betty thou'8 be." 



*oy 



REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. 



TUT. HI I T1ISOME BRIDAL. 

I find the " Blithsome Bridal" in James 
Watson's collection of Scots poems, printed at 
Edinburgh, in 1706. This collection, the pub- 
lisher says, is the first of its nature which has 
been published in our own native Scots dialect — ■ 
it is now extremely scarce. 



JOHN HAY S BONNIE LASSIE. 

John Hay's "Bonnie Lassie" was daughter 
of John Hay, Earl or Marquis of Tweeddale, and 
late Countess Dowager of Roxburgh. — She died 
it Broomlands, near Kelso, some time between 
the years 1720 and 1740. 



THE BONIE BRUCKET LASSIE. 

The two first lines of this song are all of it 
that is old. The rest of the song, as well as 
those songs in the Museum marked T., are the 
works of an obscure, tippling, but extraordinary 
body of the name of Tytler, commonly known 
by the name of Balloon Tytler, from his having 
projected a balloon : a mortal, who, though he 
drudges about Edinburgh as a common printer, 
with leaky shoes, a sky-lighted hat, and knee- 
buckles as unlike as George-by-the-grace-of-God, 
and Solomon-the-son-of-David ; yet that same 
unknown drunken mortal is author and compiler 
of three-fourths of Elliot's pompous Encyclope- 
dia Britannica, which he composed at half a 
guinea a week ! 



SAE MERRY AS WE TWA Ha'e BEEN. 

This song is beautiful. — The chorus in parti- 
cular is truly pathetic. I never could learn any 
thing of its author. 

CHORUS. 

" Sae merry as we twa ha'e been, 
Sae merry as we twa ha'e been ; 
My heart is like for to break, 
When I think on the days we ha'e seen." 



THE BANKS OF FORTH. 

This air is Oswald's. 



THE BUSH ABOON TRAQUAIR. 

This is another beautiful song of Mr. Craw- 
furd's composition. In the neighbourhood of 
Traquair, tradition still shows the old " Bush ;" 
which, when I saw it, in the year 1787, was com- 
posed of eight or nine ragged birches. The 
Earl of Traquair has planted a clump of trees 
aear oy, which he calls " The new Bush." 



CROMLET S LILT. 

The following interesting account of this 
plaintive dirge was communicated to Mr. Rid- 
del by Alexander Fraser Tytler, Esq. of Wood- 
houselee. 

" In the latter end of the sixteenth century, 
the Chisolms were proprietors of the estate of 
Cromlechs (now possessed by the Drummonds)„ 
The eldest son of that family was very much 
attached to a daughter of Sterling of Ardocli , 
commonly known by the name of Fair Helen of 
Ardoch. 

" At that time the opportunities of meeting 
betwixt the sexes were more rare, consequently 
more sought after than now ; and the Scottish 
ladies, far from priding themselves on extensive 
literature, were thought sufficiently book-learned 
if they could make out the Scriptures in their 
mother-tongue. "Writing was entirely out of 
the line of female education. At that period 
the most of our young men of family sought a 
fortune, or found a grave, in France. Cromlus, 
when he went abroad to the war, was obliged to 
leave the management of his correspondence 
with his mistress to a lay-brother of the monas- 
tery of Dumblain, in the immediate neighbour- 
hood of Cromleck, and near Ardoch. This man, 
unfortunately, was deeply sensible of Helen's 
charms. He artfully prepossessed her with 
stories to the disadvantage of Cromlus ; and by 
misinterpreting or keeping up the letters and 
messages intrusted to his care, he entirely 
irritated both. All connexion was broken off 
betwixt them : Helen was inconsolable, and 
Cromlus has left behind him, in the ballad called 
'Cromlet's Lilt,' a proof of the elegance of his 
genius, as well as the steadiness of his love. 

"When the artful monk thought time had 
sufficiently softened Helen's sorrow, he proposed 
himself as a lover: Helen was obdurate : but at 
last, overcome by the persuasions of her brother, 
witk whom she lived, and who, having a family 
of thirty-one children, was probably very well 
pleased to get her off his hands — she submitted, 
rather than consented to the ceremony ; but 
there her compliance ended ; and, when forcibly 
put into bed, she started quite frantic from it, 
screaming out, that after three gentle taps on 
the wainscot, at the bed-head, she heard Crom- 
lus's voice, crying, ' Helen, Helen, mind me !' 
Cromlus soon after coming home, the treachery 
of the confidant was discovered, — her marriage 
disannulled, — and Helen became Lady Crom- 
lecks." 

N. B. Marg. Murray, mother to these thirty- 
one children, was daughter to Murray of Strewn, 
one of the seventeen sons of Tullybardine, and 
whose youngest son, commonly called the Tutor 
of Ardoch, died in the year '715, aged 111 



MY DEARIE, IF THOU DIE. 

Another beautiful song of Crawfurd's. 



RKMA11KN ON SCOTTISH BONH 



I OS 



SHE ROSE AND LOOT ME IN. 

The old set of this song, which is still to bo 
found in printed collections, is much prettier 
than this ; but somebody, I believe it was Ram- 
say, took it into his head to clear it of some 
seeming indelicacies, and made it at once more 
chaste and more dull. 



GO TO THE EWE-BUGHTS, MARION. 

I am not sure if this old and charming air be 
of the South, as is commonly said, or of the 
North of Scotland. There is a song, apparently 
as ancient as " Ewe-bughts, Marion," which sings 
to the same tune, and is evidently of the North. 
— It begins thus : 

"The Lord o' Gordon had three dochters, 
Mary, Marget, and Jean, 
They wad na stay at bonie Castle Gordon, 
But awa to Aberdeen." 



LEWIS GORDON. 

This air is a proof how one of our Scots tunes 
comes to be composed out of another. I have 
one of the earliest copies of the song, and it has 
prefixed, 

" Tune of Tarry Woo."— 

Of which tune a different set has insensibly 
varied into a different air. — To a Scots critic, 
the pathos of the line, 

" Tho' his back be at the wa'," 

— must be very striking. It needs not a Ja- 
cobite prejudice to be affected with this song. 

The supposed author of "Lewis Gordon" was 
a Mr. Geddes, priest, at Shciival, in the Ainzie. 



O HONE A R1E. 

Dr. Blacklock informed me that this song 
was composed on the infamous massacre of 
Glencoe. 



I LL NEVER LEAVE THEE. 

This is another of Crawfurd's songs, but I do 
not think in his happiest manner. — What an 
absurdity, to join such names as Adonis and 
Mary together ! 



CORN RIGS ARE BONIE. 

All the old words that ever I could meet to 
this air were the following, which seem to have 
been an old chorus : 

** O corn rigs and rye rigs, 
O corn rigs are bonie ; 
A nd where'er you meet a bonie lass, 
Preen up her cockerncny."' 



THE MUCKING OM AEOHjpIB'l fiVHK. 
The chorus of tliis song is old; the mst is 
the work of Balloon Tytler. 



BIDE VE YIT. 

There is a beautiful song to this tune, begin- 
ning, 

" Alas, my son, you little know,"— 

which is the composition of Miss Jenny Graham, 
of Dumfries. 



WAUKIN O' THE FAULD. 

There are two stanzas still sung to this time, 
which I take to be the original song whence 
Ramsay composed his beautiful song of that 
name in the Gentle Shepherd. — It begins 

" O will ye speak at our town, 
As yc come frae the fauld." 

I regret that, as in many of our old songs, the 
delicacy of this old fragment is not equal to its 
wit and humour. 



TRANENT-MUIR. 

" Tranent-Muir," was composed by a Mr. 
Skirving, a very worthy respectable farmer near 
Haddington. I have heard tho anecdote often, 
that Lieut. Smith, whom he mentions in the 
ninth stanza, came to Haddington after the 
publication of the song, and sent a challenge to 
Skirving to meet him at Haddington, and an- 
swer for the unworthy manner in which he had 
noticed him in his song. "Gang away hack,'" 
said the honest farmer, "and tell Mr. Smith 
that I hae nae leisure to come to Haddington ; 
but tell him to come here, and I'll tak a look 
o 1 him, and if I think I'm fit to fecht him, 1 II 
fecht him ; and if no, I'll do as he did — I'll tin 



TO THE WEAVERS GIN YE GO. 

The chorus of this song is old, the rest of it 
is mine. Here, once for all, let me apologize 
for many silly compositions of mine in this work. 
Many beautiful airs wanted words ; in the hurry 
of other avocations, if I could string a parcel of 
rhymes together anything near tolerable, I was 
fain to let them pass. He must be an excellent 
poet indeed whose every performance is excel- 
lent. 



POLWARTH ON THE GREEN. 

The author of " Polwarth on the Green" [3 
Capt, John Drummond M'Gregor, of the family 
of Bochaldie. 



404 



REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. 



STRFPIION AND LYDIA. 

The following- account of this song I had from 
Dr. Black] ock. 

The Strephon and Lydia mentioned in the 
song were perhaps the loveliest couple of their 
time. The gentleman was commonly known by 
the name of Beau Gibson. The lady was the 
" Gentle Jean," celebrated somewhere in Ham- 
ilton of Bangour's poems. — Having frequently 
met at public places, they had formed a recipro- 
cal attachment, which their friends thought 
dangerous, as their resources were by no means 
adequate to their tastes and habits of life. To 
elude the bad consequences of such a connexion, 
Strephon was sent abroad with a commission, 
and perished in Admiral Vernon's expedition to 
Carthagena. 

The author of this song was William Wallace, 
Esq. of Cairnhill, in Ayrshire. 



I M O ER YOUNG TO MARRY YET. 

The chorus of this song is old. The rest of 
It, such as it is, is mine. 



STPIIERSON S FAREWELL. 

MTherson, a daring robber, in the begin- 
ning of this century, was condemned to be hanged 
at the assizes of Inverness. He is said, when 
under sentence of death, to have composed this 
tune, which he called his own lament or fare- 
well. 

Gow has published a variation of this fine 
tune as his own composition, which he calls 
" The Princess Augusta." 



MY JO, JANET. 

Johnson, the publisher, with a foolish deli- 
cacy, refused to insert the last stanza of this 
humourous ballad. 



THE SHEPHERD'S COMPLAINT. 

The words by a Mr. R. Scott, from the town 
or neighbourhood of Biggar. 



THE 3IRKS OF ABEI5FELOY. 

I composed these stanzas standing under the 
falls of Aberfeldy, at or near Moness. 



THE HIGHLAND LASSIE, O. 

This was a composition of mine in very early 
life, before 1 mus known at all in the world. My 



Highland lassie was a warm-hearted, charming 
young creatiire as ever blessed a man with 
generous love. After a pretty long tract of the 
most ardent reciprocal attachment, we met hy 
appointment on the second Sunday of May, in a 
sequestered spot by the banks of Ayr, where 
we spent the day in taking a farewell before she 
should embark for the West Highlands, to 
arrange matters among her friends for our pro- 
jected change of life. At the close of autumn 
following she crossed the sea to meet me at 
Greenock, where she had scarce landed when 
she was seized with a malignant fever, which 
hurried my dear girl to the grave in a few days, 
before I could even hear of her last illness. 



FIFE. AND A' THE LANDS ABOUT IT. 

This song is Dr. Blacklock's. He, as well as 
I, often gave Johnson verses, trifling enough 
perhaps, but they served as a vehicle to the 
music. 



WERE NA MY HEART LIGHT I WAD DIE. 

Lord Hailes, in the notes to his collection of 
ancient Scots poems, says that this song was the 
composition of a Lady Grissel Baillie, daughter 
of the first Earl of Marchmont, and wife of 
George Baillie, of Jerviswood. 



THE YOUNG MAN S DREAM. 

This song is the composition of Balloon Ty tier 



STRATHALLAN'S LAMENT. 

This air is the composition of one of the 
worthiest and best-hearted men living — Allan 
Masterton, schoolmaster in Edinburgh. As he 
and I were roth sprouts of Jacobitism we agreed 
to dedicate the words and air to that cause. 

To tell the matter-of-fact, except when my 
passions were heated by some accidental cause, 
my Jacobitism was merely by way of vive la 
bagatelle. 



UP IN THE MORNING EARLY. 

The chorus of this is old ; the two stanzas 



THE TEARS OF SCOTLAND. 

Dr. Blacklock told me that Smollett, who was 
at the bottom a great Jacobite, composed these 
beautiful and pathetic verses ort the infamous 
depredations of the Duke of Cumberland after 
the battle of Culloden. 



REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. 



40 A 



WHAT WILL I DO GIN MY r»OGGIE DIE. 

Dr. Walker, who was minister at Moffat in 
1772, and is now (1791,) Professor of Natural 
History in the University of Edinburgh, told 
the following anecdote concerning this air. — 
He said, that some gentlemen, riding a few years 
ago through Liddesdale, stopped at a hamlet 
consisting of a few houses, called Moss Piatt, 
when they were struck with this tune, which 
an old woman, spinning on a rock at her door, 
was singing. All she coidd tell concerning it 
was, that she was taught it when a child, and it 
was called " What will I do gin my Hoggie die ?" 
No person, except a few females at Moss Piatt, 
knew this, fine old tune, which in all probability 
would have been lost had not one of the gentle- 
men, who happened to have a flute with him, 
taken it down. 



I DBEAM'd I LAY WHERE FLOWERS WERE 
SPRINGING. 

These two stanzas I composed when I was 
seventeen, and are among the oldest of my 
printed pieces. 



AH ! THE POOR SHEPHERD'S MOURNFUL FATE. 

Tune—" Gallashiels.* 

The old title, " Sour Plums o' Gallashiels," 
probably was the beginning of a song to this air, 
which is now lost. 

The tune of Gallashiels was composed about 
the beginning of the present century by the 
Laird of Gallashiel's piper. 



THE BANKS OF THE DEVON. 

These verses were composed on a charming 
girl, a Miss Charlotte Hamilton, Avho is now 
married to James M'Kitrick Adair, Esq., phy- 
sician. She is sister to my worthy friend Gavin 
Hamilton, of Mauchline, and was born on the 
banks of the Ayr, but was, at the time I wrote 
these lines, residing at Herveyston, in Clack- 
mannanshire, on the romantic banks of the little 
river Devon. I first heard the air from a lady 
in Inverness, and got the notes taken down for 
this work. 



MILL, MILL O. 

The original, or at least a song evidently 
prior to Ramsay's, is still extant. — It runs thus, 

CHORUS. 

"T'lemill, mill O, and the kill, kill O, 
And the coggin o' Peggy's wheel O, 
The sack and the sieve, and a' she did leave, 
And rtane'd the miller's reel O. — 



As I cam down yon wakfvMc, 

And by yon shcllin-nili (>, 
There I spied a bonk horde lam. 

And a lass that I lov'd right vvitl (> "— 



WE RAN AND THEY RAN. 

The author of" We ran and they ran"— was 
a Rev. Mr. Murdoch M'Lcnnan, minister at 
Crathic, Dee-side. 



WALY, WALY. 

In the west country I have heard a different 
edition of the second stanza. — Instead of the" 
four lines, beginning with, " When cockle-shells 
&c." the other way ran thus : — 

"O wherefore need I busk my head, 
Or wherefore need I kamc my hair, 
Sin my fause luve has me forsook, 
And says, he'll never luve me mair. 



DUNCAN GRAY. 

Dr. Blacklock informed me that he liad often 
heard the tradition, that this air was composed 
by a carman in Glasgow. 



DUMBARTON DRUMS. 

This is the last of the West Highland airs ; 
and from it over the whole tract of country to 
the confines of Tweed-side, there is hardly a 
tune or song that one can say has taken its 
origin from any place or transaction in that part 
of Scotland. — The oldest Ayrshire reel, is Stew- 
arton Lasses, which w T as made by the father of 
the present Sir Walter Montgomery Cunning- 
ham, aUas Lord Lysle ; since which period there 
has indeed been local music in that country in 
great plenty. — Johnie Faa is the only old song 
which I could ever trace as belonging to the ex- 
tensive county of Ayr. 



CAULD KAIL IN ABERDEEN. 

This song is by the Duke of Gordon. — Ths 
old verses are, 

" There's cauld kail in Aberdeen, 

And castocks in Strath bogie: 

When ilka lad maun hac his lass, 

Then fye, gie me my coggie. 

CHORUS. 

My coggie, Sirs, my cosgie, Sire, 

1 cannot want my coggie ; 
1 wadna gie my three-girr'cl cap 

For e'er a quene on Bogie. — 

There's Johnie Smith ha? got a wife, 

That sciimps him o' his coggie, 
If she were mine, upon my iife 

1 wad douk her in a bogie " 



406 



REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG 



FOR LAKE OF GOLD. 

The country girls in Ayrshire, instead of the 
line — 



s»y, 



" She me forsook for a great duke," 



' For A thole's duke she me forsook ;' 



which I take to be the original reading. 

These were composed by the late Dr. Austin, 
physician at Edinburgh. — He had courted a 
lady, to whom he was shortly to have been 
married : but the Duke of Athole having seen 
her, became so much in love with her, that he 
made proposals of marriage, which were accepted 
of, and she jilted the doctor. 



HERE'S A HEALTH TO MY TRUE LOVE, &C. 

This song is Dr. Blacklock's. He told me that 
tradition gives the air to our James IV. of Scot- 
land. 



HEY TUTTI TAITI. 

I have met the tradition universally over 
Scotland, and particularly about Stirling, in the 
neighbourhood of the scene, that this air was 
Robert Bruce's march at the battle of Bannock- 
burn . 



RAVING WINDS AROUND HER BLOWING. 

1 composed these verses on Miss Isabella 
M'Leod, of Raza, alluding to her feelings on 
the death of her sister, and the still more melan- 
choly death of her sister's husband, the late Earl 
of Loudon ; who shot himself out of sheer heart- 
break at some mortifications he suffered, owing 
to the deranged state of his finances. 



f AK YOUR AULD CLOAK ABOUT YE. 

A part of this old song, according to the 
English set of it, is quoted in Shakspeare. 



YE GODS, WAS STREPHON'S PICTURE BLEST? 
Tune—" Fourteenth of October." 

The title of this air shows that it alludes to 
the famous king Crispian, the patron of the ho- 
nourable corporation of shoemakers. — St. Cris- 
pian's day falls on the fourteenth of October old 
style, as the old proverb tells : 

" On the fourteenth of October 
yVaa ne'er a sutor sober." 



SINCE AOBB D OF ALL TKAT CHARM *D MY 
VIEWS. 

The old name of this air is, " the Blossom a 
the Raspberry." The song is Dr. Blacklock's, 



YOUNG DAMON. 

This air is by Oswald. 



KIRK WAD LET ME BE. 

Tradition in the western parts of Scotland 
tells, that this old song, of which there are still 
three stanzas extant, once saved a covenanting 
clergyman out of a scrape. It was a little prior 
to the revolution, a period when being a Scots 
covenanter was being a felon, that one of their 
clergy, who was at that Very time hunted by the 
merciless soldiery, fell in, by accident, with a 
party of the military. The soldiers were net 
exactly acquainted with the person of the reve- 
rend gentleman of whom they were in search ; 
but, from suspicious circumstances, they fancied 
that they had got one of that cloth and oppro- 
brious persuasion among them in the person of 
this stranger. "Mass John" to extricate him- 
self, assumed a freedom of manners, very unlike 
the gloomy strictness of his sect ; and among 
other convivial exhibitions, sung (and some 
traditions say, composed on the spur of the oc- 
casion) "Kirk wad let me be," with such effect, 

that the soldiers swore he was a d d honest 

fellow, and that it was impossible he could be- 
long to those hellish conventicles ; and so gave 
him his liberty. 

The first stanza of this song, a little altered, 
is a favourite kind of dramatic interlude acted 
at country weddings, in the south-west parts of 
the kingdom. A young fellow is dressed up like 
an old beggar; a peruke, commonly made of 
carded tow, represents hoary locks ; an old bon- 
net ; a ragged plaid, or surtout, bound with a 
straw rope for a girdle ; a pair of old shoes, with 
straw ropes twisted round his ancles, as is done 
by shepherds in snowy weather : his face they 
disguise as like wretched old age as they can : 
in this plight he is brought into the wedding- 
house, frequently to the astonishment of stran- 
gers, who are not in the secret, and begins tc 
sing — 

"O, I am a silly auld man, 

My name it is auld Glenae,"&c. 

He is asked to drink, and by and bye to dance, 
which after some uncouth excuses he is prevailed 
on to do, the fiddler playing the tune, which 
here is commonly called "Auld Glenae ;" in 
short he is all the time so plied with liquor that 
he is understood to get intoxicated, and with all 
the ridiculous gesticulations of an old drunken 
beggar, he dances and staggers until he falls on 
the floor ; yet still in all his not, nay, in his 
rolling and tumbling on the floor, with some or 



REMARKS ON SCOTTISH BONO. 



107 



other drunken motion of his body, he beats tinio 
to the music, till at last he is supposed to be 
carried out dead drunk. 



MUSING ON THE ROARING OCEAN. 

I. composed these verses out of compliment 
to a Mrs. M'Lachlan, whose husband is an officer 
in the East Indies. 



BLYTHE WAS SHE. 

I composed these verses while I stayed at 
Ochtertyre with Sir William Murray. — The 
lady, who was also at Ochtertyre at the same 
time, was the well-known toast, Miss Euphemia 
Murray, of Lentrose, she was called, and very 
justly, " The Flower of Strathmore." 



JOHNNY FAA, OR THE GYPSIE LADDIE. 

The people in Ayrshire begin this song — 

"The gypsies cam to my Lord Cassilis' yen." — 

They have a great many more stanzas in this 
song than I ever yet saw in any printed copy. — 
The castle is still remaining at Maybole, where 
his lordship shut up his wayward spouse, and 
kept her for life. 



TO DAUNTON ME. 

The two following old stanzas to this tune 
have some merit : 

'« To daunton me, to daunton me, 

ken ye what it is that'll daunton me ? — 

There's eighty-eight and eighty-nine, „ 

And a' that I hae borne sinsyne, 
There's cess and press and Presbytrie, 

1 think it will do meikle for to daunton me. 



But to wanton me, to wanton me, 

<) ken ye what it is that wad wanton me — 

To see gude corn upon the rigs, 

And banishment amang the Whigs, 

And right restored where right sud be, 

I think it would do meikle for to wanton me." 



THE BONNIE LASS MADE THE BED TO ME. 

"The Bonnie Lass made the Bed to me," 
was composed on an amour of Charles II. when 
skulking in the North, about Aberdeen, in the 
time of the usurpation. He formed une petite 
affaire with a daughter of the house of Portle- 
tham, who was the " lass that made the bed to 
liuiL "—two verses of it are, 

" I kiss\i her lips sae rosy red, 

While the tear stood blinkin in net e'e 
I said my lassie dinna cry, 
fc'or ye m auah make the bod to me. 



She took her mithi 1 

A nd made them ft' in lafkl to uu ; 

[Bytfte and merty may she Le, 

The lass that made the bed to DMb" 



ABSENCE. 

A song in the maimer of Shenstone. 
This song and air are both by Dr. Blaeklock. 



I HAD A HORSE AND I HAD NAE MAIH. 

This story is founded on fact. A John 
Hunter, ancestor to a very respectable fanning 
family, who live in a place in the parish, I think, 
of Gialston, called Bar-mill, was the luckless 
hero that " had a horse and had nae mair." — 
For some little youthful lollies he found it ne- 
cessary to make a retreat to the West-High- 
lands, where "he feed himself to a Highland 
Laird," for that is the expression of all the oral 
editions of the song I ever heard. — The present 
Mr. Hunter, who told me the anecdote, is the 
great-grandchild of our hero. 



UP AND WARN a' WILLIE. 

This edition of the song I got from Tom Niel, 
of facetious fame, in Edinburgh. The expres- 
sion " Up and warn a' Willie," alludes to the 
Crantara, or warning of a Highland clan to arms. 
Not understanding this, the Lowlanders in the 
west and south say, " Up and waur them a'," c\.c. 



A ROSE-BUD BY MY EARLY WALK. 

This song I composed on Miss Jenny 
Cruikshank, only child of my worthy friend 
Mr. William Cruikshank, of the High-School, 

Edinburgh. This air is by a David Sillar, 
quondam merchant, and now schoolmaster in 
Irvine. He is the Davie to whom I address my 
printed poetical epistle in the measure of the 
Cherry and the Slae. 



AULD ROB MORRIS. 

It is remark- worthy that the song of " Ilooly 
and Fairly," in all the old editions of it, is called 
" The Drunken Wife o' Galloway," which local- 
izes it to that country. 



RATTLIN, ROARIN WILLIE. 

The last stanza of this song is mine; it was 
composed out of compliment to one of the wor- 
thiest fellows in the world, William Dunbar, 
Esq., writer to the signet, Edinburgh, and 
Colonel of the Crochallan Corps, a club of wits 
who took that title at the time of raising thfl 
fencible regiments. 



40* 



REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. 



WHERE BRAVING ANGRY WINTER STORMS. 

Tins song I composed on one of the most ac- 
complished of women, Miss Peggy Chalmers, 
that was, now Mrs. Lewis Hay, of Forbes and 
Co.'s bank, Edinburgh. 



TIBBIE I HAE SEEN THE DAY. 

This song I composed about the age of seven- 
teen. 



NANCY'S GHOST. 

This song is by Dr. Blacklock. 

Tune yqur fiddles, &c. 
This song was composed by the Rev. John 
Skinner, nonjuror clergyman at Linshart, near 
Peterhead. He is likewise author of " Tulloch- 
gorum," "Ewie wi' the crooked Horn,''' "John 
o' Badenyond," &c, and what is of still more 
consequence, he is one of the worthiest of man- 
kind. He is the author of an ecclesiastical his- 
tory of Scotland. The air is by Mr. Marshall, 
butler to the Duke of Gordon ; the first com- 
poser of strathspeys of the age. I have been 
told by somebody, who had it of Marshall him- 
self, that he took the idea of his three most 
celebrated pieces, " The Marquis of Huntley's 
Reel," his " Farewell," and " Miss Admiral Gor- 
don's Reel," from the old air, "The German 
Lair die." 



GIL MORICE. 

This plaintive ballad ought to have been 
called Child Maurice, and not Gil Maurice. In 
its present dress, it has gained immortal honour 
from Mr. Home's taking from it the ground- 
work of his fine tragedy of Douglas. But I am 
of opinion that the present ballad is a modern 
composition ; perhaps not much above the age 
of the middle of the last century; at least I 
should be glad to see or hear of a copy of the 
present words prior to 1650. That it was taken 
from an old ballad, called " Child Maurice," 
now lost, I am inclined to believe ; but the pre- 
sent one may be classed with " Hardyknute," 
"Kenneth," "Duncan, the Laird of Wood- 
houselie," "Lord Livingston," Binnorie," "The 
Death of Monteith," and many other modern 
productions, which have been swallowed by 
many readers as ancient fragments of old poems. 
This beautiful plaintive tune was composed by 
Mr. M'Gibbon, the selector of a collection of 
Scots tunes. 

R. R. 

In addition to the observations on Gil Morice, 



I add, that of the honge? which Capt. Riddel 
mentions, "Kenneth" and "Duncan" are ju- 
venile compositions of Mr. M'Kenzie, " The Man 
of Feeling." — M'Kenzie's father showed them 
in MS. to Dr. Blacklock, as the productions oi 
his son, from which the Doctor rightly prognos- 
ticated that the young poet would make, in his 
more advanced years, a respectable figure in the 
world of letters. 
This I had from Blacklock. 



TIBBIE DUNBAR. 

This tune is said to be the composition of 
John M'Gill, fiddler, in Girvan. He called it 
after his own name. 



WHEN I UrON THY BOSOM LEAN. 

This song was the work of a very worthy 
facetious old fellow, John Lapraik, late of Dal- 
fram, near Muirkirk; which little property he 
was obliged to sell in consequence of some con- 
nexion as security for some persons concerned 
in that villanous bubble, the ayr bank. He 
has often told me that he composed this song 
one day when his wife had been fretting o'er 
their misfortunes. 



MY HARRY WAS A GALLANT GAY. 

Tune.—" Highlander's Lament." 

The oldest title I ever heard to this air, was, 
" The Highland Watch's Farewell to Ireland." 
The chorus I picked up from an old woman hi 
Dumblane ; the rest of the song is mine. 



THE HIGHLAND CHARACTER. 

This tune was the composition of Gen. Reid, 
and called by him " The Highland, or 42nd 
Regiment's March." The words are by Sir 
Harry Erskine. 



LEADER HAUGHS AND YARROW. 

There is in several collections, the old song 
of " Leader Haughs and Yarrow." It seems to 
have been the work of one of our itinerant min- 
strels, as he calls himself, at the conclusion of 
his song, "Minstrel Burn." 



THE TAILOR FELL THRO* THE BED, THIMBLE 
AN' A,' 

This air is the march of the corporation oi 
tailors. The second, and fourth stanzas are 
mine. 



REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. 



409 



HEWAHE o' BONNIE AJNN. 

I composed this song out of compliment to 
*fiss Ann Masterton, the daughter of iny friend 
Allan Masterton, the author of the air of Strath- 
jillan's Lament, and two or three others in this 
worlc. 



THIS IS NO MINE AIN HOUSE. 

Fi:e first half-stanza is old, the rest is Ram- 
say £. 



The old words are — 



" This is no mine ain house, 

My ain house, my ain house; 
This is no mine ain house, 
i ken by the biggin o't. 

Bread and cheese are my door-cheeks, 

My door-cheeks, my door-checks ; 
Bread and cheese are my door-cheeks, 

And pancakes the riggin o't. 

This is no my ain wean ; 

My ain wean, my ain wean 
This is no my ain wean, 

I ken by the greetie o't. 

I'll tak the curchie aff my head, 

Aff my head, aft" my head ; 
I'll tak the curchie aft my head, 

And row"t about the feetie o't." 

The tune is an old Highland air, called 
K Shuan truish willighan." 



LADDIE, LIE NEAR ME. 

This song is by Blacklock. 



THE GARDENER WI HIS PAIDLE. 

This air is the "Gardener's March." The 
title of the song only is old ; the rest is mine. 



THE- DAY RETURNS, MY BOSOM BURNS. 
Tune. — " Seventh of November.'' 

I composed this song out of compliment to 
one of the happiest and worthiest married cou- 
ples in the world, Robert Riddel, Esq., of Glen- 
riddel, and his lady. At their fire-side I have 
enjoyed more pleasant evenings than at all the 
houses of fashionable people in this country put 
together ; and to their kindness and hospitality I 
am indebted for many of the happiest hours of 
my life. 



THE GABERLUNZIE MAN. 

The " Gaberlunzie Man" is supposed to com- 
memorate an intrigue of James the Fifth. Mr. 
Callander, of Craigforth published some years 
ago, an edition of " Christ's Kirk on the Green," 
and the " Gaberlunzie Man," with notes critical 
and historical. James the Fifth is said to have 
been fond of Gosford, in Aberlady parish, and 
that it was suspected by his cotemporarios, that 



in his frequent excursions to that part of the 
country, he had other purpoft a in view betides 
golfing and archery. Three favourite ladies, 
SandiJands, Weir, and Oliphant, (one of there 
resided at Gosford, and the others in the neigh 

bourhood,) were occasionally visited by their 
royal and gallant admirer, which gave rise to 
the following advice to hifl majesty, from Sir 
David Lindsay, of the Mount, Lord Lyon. 
"Sow not your seed <m Sandylantb, 

Spend not your strength in Weir, 
And ride not on an Kli pliant, 
For gavving o' your gear." 



MY BONNIE MAnY. 

Tins air is Oswald's; the first half stanza of 

the song is old, the rest mine. 



THE BLACK EAGLE. 

This song is by Dr. Fordyce, whose merits as 
a prose writer are well known. 



JAMIE, COME TRY ME. 

Tats air is Oswald's; the song mine. 



THE LAZY MlS'i. 

This song is mine. 



JOIINIE COPE. 

This satirical song was composed to comme- 
rate General Cope's defeat at Preston Pane, in 
1745, when he marched against the Clans. 

The air was the tune of an old song, of w Inch 
I have heard some verses, but now only remem- 
ber the title, which was, 

" Will ye go the coals in the morning." 



I LOVE MY JEAN. 

This air is by Marshal ; the song I composed 
out of compliment to Mrs. Burns. 

N.B. It was during the honeymoon. 



CEASE, CEASE, MY DEAR FRIEND, TO 
EXPLORE. 

The song is by Dr. Blacklock ; I believe, but 
am not quite certain, that the air is his too. 



410 



REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG 



AULD ItdBIN OKAY. 



This air was formerly called, "The Bride- 
groom greets when the Sun gangs down." The 
words are by Lady Ann Lindsay, of the Balcarras 
family. 



DONALD AKD FLORA. 

This is one of those fine Gaelic tunes, pre- 
served from time immemorial in the Hebrides ; 
they seem to be the ground-work of many of 
our finest Scots pastoral tunes. The words of 
this song were written to commemorate the un- 
fortunate expedition of General Burgoyne in 
America, in 1777- 



O WERE I ON PARNASSUS HILL. 

This air is Oswald's; the song I made out 
of compliment to Mrs. Burns. 



THE CAPTIVE ROBIN. 

This air is called " Robie donna Gorach." 



THERE'S A YOUTH IN THIS CITY. 

This air is claimed by Neil Gow, who calls it 
nis lament for his brother. The first half-stanza 
of the song is old ; the rest mine. 



MY MART S IN THE HIGHLANDS. 

The first half-stanza of this song is old; the 
rest is mine. 



CA' THE EWES AND THE KNOWES. 

This beautiful song is in true old Scotch 
taste, yet I do not know that either air or words 
were in print before. 



THE BR] DAL O T. 

This song is the work of a Mr. Alexander 
Ross, late schoolmaster at Lochlee ; and author 
of a beautiful Scots poem, called " The Fortu- 
nate Shepherdess." 

" They say tnat Jockey '11 speed weel o't, 
Thev say that Jockey '11 speed weel o't, 
Fox l < grows brawer ilka day, 
I hope we'll hae a bridal o't: 
. For yesternight nae farder gane, 

The backhouse at the side \va' o't, 
lie th>;re u i' Meg wasmirden seen, 
I hope we'll hae a br.tlal o't. 



An' we had but a bridal o't, 

An' we had but a bridal o't, 
We'd leave the rest unto gude lucks 

Altho' there should betide ill o't: 
For bridal davs are merry times, 

And young folks like the coming o't, 
And scribblers they bang up their rhymsSi 

And pipers they the bumming o't. 

The lasses like a bridal o't, 

The lasses like a bridal o't, 
Their braws maun be in rank and file, 

Altho' they should guide ill o't : 
The boddom o' the kist is then 

Turn'd up into the inmost o't, 
The end that held the kecks saecleniij 

Is now become the teemest o't. 

The bangster at the threshing o't, 

The bangster at the threshing o't. 
Afore it comes is fidgin fain, 

And ilka day's a clashing o't : 
Hell sell his jerkin for a great, 

His linder for anither o't, 
And e'er he want to clear his shot. 

His sark'll pay the tither o'fc. 

The pipers and the fiddlers o't. 

The pipers and the fiddlers o't, 
Can smell a bridal unco' far, 

And like to lie the middlers o't ; 
Fan l thick and threefold they convene, 

Ilk ane envies the tither o't, 
And wishes nane but him alane 

May ever see anither o't. 

Fan they hae done wi' eating o't, 

Fan they hae done wi' eating o't, 
For dancing they gae to Uie green, 

And aiblins to the beating o't : 
He dances best that dances fast, 

And loups at ilka reesing o't, 
And claps his hands frae hough to hough* 

And furls about the feezings o't." 



TODLEN HAME. 

This is perhaps the first bottle song that 
ever was composed. 



THE BRAES O BALLOCHMYLE. 

This air is the composition of my friend 
Allan Masterton, in Edinburgh. I composed the 
verses, on the amiable and excellent family of 
Whitefoords leaving Ballochmyle, when Sir 
John's misfortunes had obliged him to sell the 
estate. 



THE RAN TIN DOG, THE DADD1E O T. 

I C031P0SED this song pretty early in life, and 
sent it to a young girl, a very particular acquaint- 
ance of mine, who was at that time under a 
cloud. 



THE SHEPHERD'S PREFERENCE. 

This song is Dr. Blacklock's. — I don't know 
how it came by the name, but the oldest appel- 
lation of the air was, " Whistle and I'll come to 
you, my lad." 

It has little affinity to the tune commonly 
known bv that name. 



t'.e tiialeec of Arjg'Ub. 



REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG 



4P 



THE BONIE BANKS OF AY!l. 

I composed this song as I conveyed my chest 
so far on the road to Greenock, where I was to 
embark in a few days for Jamaica. 

I meant it as my farewell dirge to my native 
land. 



JOHN O* BADENYON. 

This excellent song is the composition of my 
worthy friend, old Skinner, at Linshart. 

' When first I cam to be a man 

Of twenty years or so, 
I thought myself a handsome youth, 

And fain the world would know; 
In best attire 1 stept abroad, 

With spirits brisk and gay, 
And here and there and everywhere, 

Was like a morn in May ; 
No care had I nor fear of want, 

But rambled up and down, 
And for a beau I might have pass'd 

In country or in town ; 
I still was pleas'd where'er I went, 

And when I wasalone, 
I tun'd my pipe and pleas'd myself 

Wi' John o' Badenyon. 

J\ ow In the days of youthful prime 

A mistress I must find, 
For love, 1 heard, gave one an air, 

And ev*n improved the mind : 
On Phillis fair above the rest 

Kind fortune fixt my eyes, 
Her piercing beauty struck my heart, 

And she became my choice ; 
To Cupid now with hearty prayer 

I offer'd many avow; 
And danc'd and sung, and sigh'd, and swore 

As other lovers do; 
But, when at last I breath'd my flame, 

I found her cold as stone ; 
I left the jilt, and tun'd my pipe 

To John o' Badenyon. 

When love had thus my heart beguil'd 

With foolish hopes and vain! 
To friendship's port I «eer'd my couise, 

A nd laugh'd at lover's pain ; 
A friend I got by lucky chance, 

'Twas something like divine, 
An honest friend's a precious gift, 

And such a gift was mine, 
And now whatever might betide, 

A happy man was I, 
In any strait I knew to whom 

I freely might apply ; 
A strait soon came : my friend I try'd ; 

He heard, and spurn'd my moan ; 
I hy'd me home, and tun'd mv pipe 

To John o' Badenyon. 

Methought I should be wiser next 

And would a patriot turn, 
Began to doat on Johnny Wilks, 

And cry up Parson Home. 
Their manly spirit 1 admirM, 

And prais'd their noble zeal, 
Who had with flaming tongue and pen 

Maintain'd the public weal ; 
But e'er a month or two had past, 

I found myself betray'd, 
'Twas self and party after all, 

For a' the stir they made; 
A,* last I saw the factious knaves 

insult the very throne, 
I ttuz'd them a', and tun'd my pipe 

Ts John o Badenyon." 



A WAUKI'IKE MINNIE. 

I picked up this old song and tune from a 
country girl in Nithsdalo. — 1 ifcver met with it 
elsewhere in Scotland. 

" Whare Mr jroo (juiin, my bonie 1am, 
Whare are you gaun, my hinnie, 
She answer'd me right saucilie, 
An errand for my minute. 

O whare live ye, my bonie low, 

O whare live ye, my hinnie, 
By yon burn-side, gin ye maun keti, 

In a wee house wi' my minnic. 

But I foor up the glen at e'en, 

To see my bonle lassie; 
And lang before the gray mom cam, 

She was na hauf sa sacie. 

O weary fa' the waukrife cock, 

And the foumart lay his era win I 
He wauken'd the auld wife free her sleep, 

A wee blink or the dawin. 

An angry wife I wat she raise, 

And o'erthe bed she brought her ; 
And wi' a mickle hazle rung 

She made her a weel pay ddochtcr. 

O fare thee weel, my bonie lass . 

O fare thee weel, my hinnie ! 
Thou art a gay and a bonie lass, 

But thou hast a waukrife minnic 



TULLOCHGORUM. 

This first of songs, is the master-piece of my old 
friend Skinner. He was passing the day, at the 
town of Cullen, I think it was, in a friends house 
whoee name was Montgomery. Mrs. Mont- 
gomery observing, en passant, that the beauti- 
ful reel of Tullochgorum wanted words, she 
begged them of Mr. Skinner, who gratified her 
wishes, and the wishes of every Scottish song, iu 
this most excellent ballad. 

These particulars 1 had from the author's son, 
Bishop Skinner, at Aberdeen. 



FOR A THAT AND A THAT. 

This song is mine, all except the chorus. 



AULD LANG SINE. 

Ramsay here, as usual with him, has taken 
the idea of the song, and the first line, from the 
old fragment which may be seen in the " Mu- 
seum," vol. v. 



WILLIE BREW'n A PECK O MAUT. 

This air is Masterton's ; the song mine. — 
The occasion of it was this : — Mr. W. NicoLof 
the High-School, Edinburgh, during the autumn 



412 



REM VRKS ON SCOTTISH SONO. 



vacation being at Moffat, honest Allan, who 
was at that time on a visit to Dalswinton, and I 
went to pay Nicol a visit. — We had such a joyous 
meeting that Mr. Masterton and I agreed, each 
in our own way, that we should celebrate the bu- 
siness. 



KILLIECRANKIE. 

The battle of Killiecrankie was the last stand 
made by the clans for James, after his abdication. 
Here the gallant Lord Dundee fell in the mo- 
ment of victory, and with him fell the hopes of 
the party. General Mackay, when he found the 
Highlanders did not pursue his flying army, said, 
" Dundee must be killed, or he never would 
have overlooked this advantage." A great 
stone marks the spot where Dundee fell. 



THE EWIE WI THE CROOKED HORN. 

Another excellent song of old Skinner's. 



CRATGIE-BURN WOOD. 

It is remarkable of this air that it is the con- 
fine of that country where the greatest part of 
our Lowland music (so far as from the title, 
words, &c, we can localize it) has been com- 
posed. From Craigie-burn, near Moffat, until 
one reaches the West Highlands, we have 
scarcely one slow air of any antiquity. * 

The song was composed on a passion which a 
Mr. Gillespie, a particular friend of mine, had 
for a Miss Lorimer, afterwards a Mrs. Whelp- 
dale. This young lady was born at Craigie-burn 
Wood. — The chorus is part of an old foolish 
ballad. 



FRAE THE FRIENDS AND LAND I LOA'E. 

I added the four last lines, by way of giving a 
turn to the theme of the poem, such as it is. 



HUOHIE graham. 
There are several editions of this ballad. — 
This, here inserted, is from oral tradition in 
Ayrshire, where, when I was a boy, it was a 
popular song.— It originally, had a simple old 
tune, which 1 have forgotten. 

" Our lords are to the mountains gane, 
A hunting o' the- fallow deer, 
And they have gripet Hughie Graham, 
For stealing o* the bishop's mare. 

And they have tied him hand and foot, 
And led him up, thro' Stirling town ; 

The lads and lasses met him there, 
Cried, Hughie Graham thou Hit a loun 



lowse my right hand free, ho snys. 
And put my oraid sword ii the sans* 

He's no in Stirling town this dav. 
Dare teli the tale to Hughie Graham 

Up then bespake the b^re Whitefoora- 
As he sat by the bishop's knee, 

Five hundred white stots I'll gie yon, 
If ye'll let Hughie Graham gae free. 

O haud your tongue, the bishop says. 

And wi' your pleading let me be ; 
For tho' ten Grahams were in his coat, 

Hughie Graham this day shall die. 

Up then bespake the fair Whitefoord, 
As she sat by the bishop's knee ; 

Five hundred white pence 111 gieyou, 
If ye'll gie Hughie Graham to me. 

O haud your tongue now, lady fair. 
And wi' your pleading let it be ; 

Altho' ten Grahams were in his coat, 
It's for my honour he maun die. 

They've ta'en him to the gallows laiowts, 

He looked to the gallows tree, 
Yet never colour left his cheek, 

Nor ever did he blink hi* e'e. 

At length he looked round about, 

To see whatever he could spy : 
And there he saw his aula father, 

And he was weeping bitterly 

O baud your tongue, my father drtty. 

And wi' your weeping let it be ; 
Thy weeping's sairer on my heart, 

Than a' that they can do to me. 

And ye may gie my brother John, 
My sword that's bent in the middle ri«u' 

And let him come at twelve o'clock, 
A nd see me pay the bishop's mare, 

And ye may gie my brother James, 
M y sword that's bent in the middle brown % 

And bid him come at four o' clock, 
And see his brother Hugh cut down. 

Remember me to Maggy my wife, 
The neist time yegang o'er the mow, 

Tell her she staw the bishop's mare, 
Tell her she was the bishop's whore. 

And ye may tell my kith and kin, 

1 never did disgrace their blood ; 
And when they meet the bishop's cloak 

To mak it shorter by the hood." 



A SOUTHLAND JEXNV. 

This is a popular Ayrshire song, though thy 
notes were never taken down before. It, as 
well as many of the ballad tunes in this collec- 
tion, was written from Mrs. Burns' s voice. 



MY TOCHER'S THE JEWEL. 

This tune is claimed by Nathaniel Gow. — It 
is notoriously taken from " The nmckin o' 
Gordie's byre." — It is also to be found long 
prior to Nathaniel Gow's era, in Aird's Selection 
of Airs and Marches, the first edition under th«i 
name of " The Highway to Edinburgh.'' 



REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG 



413 



THEN, GUID WIFE, COINT THE LAWin'. 

The chorus of this is part of an old song, no 
stanza, of which I recollect. 



thehe'il never be peace till JAMIE 

COMES IIAME. 

This tune is sometimes called " There's few 
gude fellows when Willie's awa." — But I never 
have been able to meet with anything else of 
the song than the title. 



I DO CONFESS THOU ART SAE FAIR. 

This song is altered from a poem by Sir 
.Robert Ay ton, private secretary to Mary and 
Ann, Queens of Scotland. — The poem is to be 
found in James Watson's Collection of Scots 
Poems, the earliest collection printed in Scot- 
laud. I think that I have improved the simpli- 
city of the sentiments, by giving them a Scots 
dress. 



THE SODGER LADDIE. 

The first verse of this is old ; the rest is by 
Ramsay. The tune seems to be the same with a 
slow air, called " Jacky Hume's Lament" — or, 
" The Hollin Buss" — or, " Ken ye what Meg o' 

the Mill has gotten ?" 



WHERE WAD BONNIE ANNIE LIE. 

The old name of this tune is, — 

" Whare'll our gudeman lie." 

A silly old stanza of it runs thus— 

" O whare'll our gudeman lie, 

Gudeman lie, gudeman lie, 

O whare'll our gudeman lie, 

Till he shute o'er the si: 



Up amang the hen-bawks, 
The hen-bawks, the hen-bawks, 

Up amang the hen-bawks, 
Amang the rcrf ten t u.o ins ■ * 



GALLOWAY TAM. 

1 have seen an interlude (acted at a wedding) 
to this tune, called " The Wooing of tlie 
Maiden." These entertainments are now much 
worn out in this part of Scotland. Tavo are 
still retained in Nithsdale, viz. " Silly Pure 
Auld Glenae," and this one, " The Wooing of 
the Maiden." 



AS I CAM DOWN IIV YON' CASTLE WA*. 

'I'm is is a very popular Ayrshire song. 



LORD honai.I) MY so.v. 

'J'ii is aii-, a very favourite one in Ayrshire, i j 
evidently the original of Lochaber. In tin. 

manner most of our finest more modern air-, 

have had their origin. Borne early mi:, , 
musical shepherd, composed the simple, artlees 
original air; which being picked up bythe more 

learned musician, took the improved form it 
hears. 



O'ER THE MOOR AMANG THE HEATHER. 

This song is the composition of a. Jean Glover 
a girl who was not only a whore, but also a thief; 

and in one or other character lias visited most 
of the Correction Houses in the West. She was 
born I believe in Kilmarnock, — I took the gong 
down from her singing, as she was strolling 
through the country, with a slight-of-hand 
blackguard. 



TO THE ROSE BUD. 

Thip song is the composition of a John- 
son, a joiner in the neighbourhood of Belfast. 
The tune is by Oswald, altered, evidently, from 
" Jockie's Gray Breeks." 



Y©N WILD MOSSY MOUNTAINS. 

This tune is by Oswald. The song alludes to 
a part of my private history, which it is of no con- 
sequence to the world to know. 



IT IS NA, JEAN, THY BONNIE FACE. 

These were originally English verses:— I 
gave them the Scots dresa. 



EPPIE M'NAB 

The old song with this title has more wit than 
decency 



WHA IS THAT AT MY BOWEH DOOR. 

This tune is also known by the name of" Lass 
an I come near thee." The words are mine. 



414 



REMARKS Oi\ SCOTTISH SONG 



THOU ART GANE AW A. 

Thib tune is the same with " Haud awa frae 
me, Donald." 



THE TEARS I SHED MUST EVER FALL 

This song of genius was composed by a Miss 
Cranston. It wanted four lines, to make all the 
stanzas suit the music, which I added, and are 
the four first of the last stanza. 

" No cold approach, no alter'i mien, 

Just what would make suspicion start; 
No pause the dire extremes between, 
He made me blest — and broke my heart !" 



THE BONIE WEE THING. 

Composed on my little idol " the charming, 
lovely Davies." 



THE TITHER MORN. 

This tune is originally from the Highlands. 
I have heard a Gaelic song to it, which I was 
told was very clever, but not by any means 
a lady's song. 



A MOTHER S LAMENT FOR THE DEATH OF 
HER SON. 

This most beautiful tune is, I think, the hap- 
piest composition of that bard-born genius, 
John Riddel, of the family of Glencarnock, at 
Ayr. The words were composed to commemo- 
rate the much-lamented and premature death of 
James Ferguson, Esq., jun., of Craigdarroch. 



DAINTIE DAVIE. 

This song, tradition says, and the composition 
itself confirms it, was composed on the Rev. 
David Williamson's begetting the daughter of 
Lady Cherrytrees with child, while a party of 
dragoons were searching her house to appre- 
hend him for being an adherent to the solemn 
league and covenant. The pious woman had 
put a lady's night-cep on him, and had laid him 
a-bed with her owi daughter, and passed him 



to the soldiery as a lady, her daughter's bed- 
fellow. A mutilated stanza or two are to bo 
found in Herd's collection, but the original song 
consists of five or six stanzas, and were their 
delicacy equal to their wit and humour, they 
would merit a place in any collection. The 
first stanza is • 

" Being pursued by the dragoons, 
"Within my bed he was laid down ; 
And weel I wat he was worth his room, 
For he was my daintie Davie." 

Ramsay's song, " Luckie Nansy," though he 
calls it an old song with additions, seems to 
be all his own, except the chorus : 

" I was a telling you, 
Luckie Nansy, Luckie Nansy, 
Auld springs wad ding the new, 
But ye wad never trow me." 

Which I should conjecture to be part of a song 
prior to the affair of Williamson. 



BOB O' DUMBLANE. 

Ramsay, as usual, has modernized this song. 
The original, which I learned on the spot, from 
my old hostess in the principal inn there, is — 

'* Lassie, lend me your braw hemp heckle 
And I'll lend you my thripplin-kame ; 
My heckle is broken, it canna be gotten, 
And we'll gae dance the bob o' Dumblane. 

Twa gaed to the wood, to the wood, to the wood, 
Twa gaed to the wood— three came hame; 

An' it be na weel bobbit, weel bobbit, weel bobbit, 
An' it be na weel bobbit, we'll boJ it again," 

I insert this song to introduce the following 
anecdote, which I have heard well authenti- 
cated. In the evening of the day of the battle 
of Dumblane, (Sheriff Muir,)when the action was 
over, a Scots officer in Argyll's army, observed 
to His Grace, that he was afraid the rebels would 
give out to the world that they had gotten the 
victory. — " Weel, weel," returned his Grace, 
alluding to the foregoing ballad, " if they think 
it be nae weel bobbit, we'll bob it again." 



THE BORDER TOUR. 



Left Edinburgh (May 6, 1787)— Lammer- 

muir-hills miserably dreary, but at times very 
picturesque. Lanton-edge, a glorious view of 
the Merse — Reach Berry well — old Mr. Ainslie 
an uncommon character; — his hobbies, agricul- 
ture, natural philosophy, and politics. — In the 
first he is unexceptionably the clearest-headed, 
best-informed man I ever met with; in the 
other two, very intelligent : — As a man of busi- 
ness he has uncommon merit, and by fairly de- 
serving it has made a very decent independence. 
Mrs. Ainslie, an excellent, sensible, cheerful, 
amiable old woman. — Miss Ainslie — her person 
a little embonboint, but handsome ; her face, par- 
ticularly her eyes, full of sweetness and good 
humour — she unites three qualities rarely to be 
found together ; keen, solid penetration ; sly, 
witty observation and remark ; and the gentlest, 
most unaffected female modesty — Douglas, a 
clever, fine promising young fellow. — The 
family-meeting with their brother; my com- 
pagnon de voyage, very charming; particularly 
the sister. The whole family remarkably at- 
tached to their menials — Mrs. A. full of stories 
of the sagacity and sense of the little girl in the 
kitchen. — Mr. A. high in the praises of an Afri- 
can, his house-servant— all his people old in his 
service — Douglas's old nurse came to Berry well 
yesterday to remind them of its being his birth- 
day. 

A Mr. Dudgeon, a poet at times, 1 a worthy 
remarkable character — natural penetration, a 
great deal of information, some genius, and ex- 
treme modesty. 

Sunday. — Went to church at Dunse 2 — Dr. 



* The author of that fine song, " The Maid that tends the Goats." 
2 " During the discourse Burns produced a neat impromptu, con- 
veying an elegant compliment to Miss Ainslie. Dr. B. had selected a 
text of Scripture that contained a heavy denunciation against obsti- 
nate sinners. In the course of the sermon Burns observed the young 
Indy turning over the leaves of her Bible, with much earnestness, in 
search of the text. He took out a slip of paper, and with a pencil 



Bow maker a man of strong lungs and pretty 
judicious remark ; but ill skilled in propriety, 
and altogether unconscious of his want of it. 

Monday. — Coldstream — went over to England 
— Cornhill— glorious river Tweed— clear and 
majestic — fine bridge. Dine at Coldstream with 

Mr. Ainslie and Mr. Foreman — beat Mr. F ■ 

in a dispute about Voltaire. Tea at Lenel 
House with Mr. Brydone — Mr. Brydone a most 
excellent heart, kind, joyous, and benevolent; 
but a good deal of the French indiscriminate 
complaisance — from his situation past and pre- 
sent, an admirer of every thing that hears a 
splendid title, or that possesses a large estate — 
Mrs. Brydone a most elegant woman in her per- 
son and manners; the tones of her voice re- 
markably sweet — my reception extremely flat- 
tering — sleep at Coldstream. 

Tuesday. — Breakfast at Kelso— charming situ- 
ation of Kelso — fine bridge over the Tweed — 
enchanting views and prospects on both sides of 
the river, particularly the Scotch side; intro- 
duced to Mr. Scot of the Royal Bank — an excel- 
lent, modest fellow — fine situation of it — ruins 
of Roxburgh Castle — a holly-bush growing 
where James II. of Scotland was accidentally 
killed by the bursting of a cannon. A small old 
religious ruin, and a fine old garden planted by 
the religious, rooted out and destroyed by an 
English hottentot, a maitre d'hotel of the duke's, 
a Mr. Cole — climate and soil of Berwickshire, 
and even Roxburghshire, superior to Ayrshire - 
bad roads. Turnip and sheep husbandry, their 
great improvements — Mr. M-Dowal, at Caver- 



e the following lines on it, which he immediate!} presented to 

' Fail maid, you need not take the bin... 

Nor idle texts pursue : — 
'Twas guilty sinners that he meant,— 
^ ot angels such as voii. 



416 



THE BORDER TOUR. 



ton Mill, a friend of Mr. Ainslie's, with whom 
I dined to-day, sold his sheep, ewe and lamb 
together, at two guineas a piece — wash their 
sheep before shearing — seven or eight pounds 
of washen wool in a fleece — low markets, con- 
sequently low rents — fine lands not above six- 
teen shillings a Scotch acre — magnificence of 
farmers and farm-houses— come up Teviot and 
up Jed to Jedburgh to lie, and so wish myself a 
good night. 

Wednesday. — Breakfast with Mr. in Jed- 
burgh — a squabble between Mrs. , a 

crazed, talkative slattern, and a sister of her's, 
an old maid, respecting a relief minister — 
Miss gives Madam the lie ; and Madam, by way 
of revenge, upbraids her that she laid snares to 
entangle the said minister, then a widower, in 
the net of matrimony — go about two miles out 
of Jedburgh to a roup of parks — meet a polite, 
soldier-like gentleman, a Captain Rutherford, 
who had been many years through the wilds 
of America, a prisoner among the Indians — 
charming, romantic situation of Jedburgh, with 
gardens, orchards, &c. intermingled among the 
houses — fine old ruins — a once magnificent ca- 
thedral, and strong castle. All the towns here 
have the appearance of old, rude grandeur, but 
the people extremely idle — Jed a fine romantic 
little river. 

Dine with Capt. Rutherford — the Captain a 
polite fellow, fond of money in his farming 
way ; showed a particular respect to my bard- 
ship — his lady exactly a proper matrimonial 
second part for him. Miss Rutherford a beau- 
tiful girl, but too far gone woman to expose 
so much of a fine swelling bosom — her face 
very fine. 

Return to Jedburgh — walk up Jed with some 
ladies to be shown Love-lane and Blackburn, 
two fairy scenes. Introduced to Mr. Potts, 
writer, a very clever fellow ; and Mr. Somer- 
ville, the clergyman of the place, a man, and 
a gentleman, but sadly addicted to punning. — 
The walking party of ladies, Mrs. — — and 

Miss her sister, before mentioned. — N. B. 

These two appear still more comfortably ugly 
and stupid, and bore me most shockingly. Two 

Miss , tolerably agreeable. Miss Hope, a 

tolerably pretty girl, fond of laughing and fun. 
Miss Lindsay, a good-humoured, amiable girl ; 
rather short et embonpoint, but handsome, and 
extremely graceful — beautiful hazel eyes, full 
of spirit, and sparkling with delicious moisture 
- -an engaging face un tout ensemble that speaks 
her of the first order of female minds — her 
sister, a bonnie, strappan, rosy, sonsie lass. 
Shake myself loose, after several unsuccessful 
efforts, of Mrs. and Miss , and some- 
how or other, get hold of Miss Lindsay's arm. — 
My heart is thawed into melting pleasure after 
being so long frozen up in the Greenland bay of 
indifference, amid the noise and nonsense of 
Edinburgh. Miss seems very well pleased with 
my hardship's distinguishing her, and after 



some slight qualms, which I could easily max k, 
she sets the titter round at defiance, and 
kindly allows me to keep my hold ; and when 
parted by the ceremony of my introduction to 
Mr. Somerville, she met me half, to resume my 

situation. Nota Bene- — The poet within a 

point and a half of being d-mnably in love - - 
I am afraid my bosom is still nearly as much 
tinder as ever. 

The old, cross-grained, whiggish, ugly, slan- 
derous Miss , with all the poisonous spleen 

of a disappointed, ancient maid, stops me very 
unseasonably to ease her bursting breast, by 
falling abusively foul on the Miss Lindsays, par- 
ticularly on my Dulcinea ; — I hardly refrain 
from cursing her to her face for daring to mouth 
her calumnious slander on one of the finest 
pieces of the workmanship of Almighty Excel- 
lence ! Sup at Mr. 's; vexed that the 

Miss Lindsays are not of the supper-party, as 

they only are wanting. Mrs. and Miss 

still improve infernally on my hands. 

Set out next morning for Wauchope, the seat 
of my correspondent, Mrs. Scott — breakfast by 
the way with Dr. Elliot, an agreeable, good- 
hearted, climate-beaten old veteran, in the 
medical line ; now retired to a romantic, but 
rather moorish place, on the banks of the Roole 
— he accompanies us almost to Wauchope— 
we traverse the country to the top of Bo- 
chester, the scene of an old encampment, and 
Woolee Hill. 

Wauchope — Mr. Scott exactly, the figure and 
face commonly given to Sancho Panca — very 
shrewd in his farming matters, and not unfre- 
quently stumbles on what may be called a 
strong thing rather than a good thing. Mrs. 
Scott all the sense, taste, intrepidity of face, 
and bold, critical decision, which usually dis- 
tinguish female authors. — Sup with Mr. Potts 
■ — agreeable party. — Breakfast next morning 
with Mr. Somerville — the bruit of Miss Lindsay 
and my hardship, by means of the invention 

and malice of Miss - . Mr. Somerville 

sends to Dr. Lindsay, begging him and family 
to breakfast if convenient, but at all events to 
send Miss Lindsay; accordingly Miss Lindsay 
only comes. — I find Miss Lindsay would soon play 
the devil with me — I met with some little flat- 
tering attentions from her. Mrs. Somerville an 
excellent, motherly, agreeable woman, and a 

fine family. — Mr. Ainslie and Mrs. S ,junrs. 

with Mr. , Miss Lindsay, and myself, go to 

see Esther, a very remarkable woman for recit- 
ing poetry of all kinds, and sometimes making 
Scotch doggerel herself — she can repeat by 
heart almost every thing she has ever read, 
particularly Pope's Homer from end to end — 
has studied Euclid by herself, and, in short, 
is a woman of very extraordinary abilities. — 
On conversing with her I find her fully equal to 
the character given of her. 1 - — She is very much 



1 " This extraordinary woman then moved in a very humble thU.K 
of life ; —the wife of a common working garden* '• Slit is stiillMng. 



THE BOltDKK TOUR. 



417 



flattered that I send for her, and that she sees 
■a poet who has put out a book, as site says. — 
She is, among other things, a great florist — and 
is rather past the meridian of once celebrated 
beauty. 

I walk in Esther's garden with Miss Lindsay, 
and after some little chit-chat of the tender 
kind, I presented her with a proof print of my 
Nob, which she accepted with something more 
tender than gratitude. She told me many little 

stories which Miss had retailed concerning 

her and me, with prolonging pleasure — God 
bless her ! Was waited on by the magistrates, 
and presented with the freedom of the burgh. 

Took farewell of Jedburgh, with some melan- 
choly, disagreeable sensations. — Jed, pure be 
thy crystal streams, and hallowed thy sylvan 
banks ! Sweet Isabella Lindsay, may peace 
dwell in thy bosom, uninterrupted, except by 
the tumultuous throbbings of rapturous love ! 
That love-kindling eye must beam on another, 
not on me ; that graceful form must bless an- 
other's arms ; not mine ! 

Kelso. Dine with the farmers' club — all 
gentlemen, talking of high matters — each of 
them keeps a hunter from thirty to fifty pounds 
value, and attends the fox-huntings in the 
country — go out with Mr. Kef, one of the club, 
and a friend of Mr. Ainslie's, to lie — Mr. Ker a 
most gentlemanly, clever, handsome fellow, a 
widower with some fine children — his mind and 
manner astonishingly like my dear old friend 
Robert Muir, in Kilmarnock — every thing in 
Mr. Ker's most elegant — he offers to accompany 
me in my English tour. Dine with Sir Alex- 
ander Don — a pretty clever fellow, but far from 
being a match for his divine lady. — A very wet 
day * * * — Sleep at Stodrig again ; and set 
out for Melrose — visit Dryburgh, a fine old 
ruined abbey — still bad weather — cross Leader, 
and come up Tweed to Melrose — dine there, 
and visit that far-famed, glorious ruin — come 
to Selkirk, up Ettrick; — the whole country 
hereabout, both on Tweed and Ettrick remark- 
ably stony. 

Monday. — Come to Inverleithing, a famous 
shaw, and in the vicinity of the palace of Tra- 
quair, where having dined, and drank some 
Galloway-whey, I here remain till to-morrow — 
saw Elibanks and Elibraes, on the other side of 
the Tweed. 

Tuesday. — Drank tea yesternight at Pirn, with 
Mr. Horseburgh. — Breakfasted to-day with Mr. 
Ballantyne of Hollowlee — Proposal for a four- 
horse team to consist of Mr. Scott of Wauchope, 
Fittieland : Logan of Logan, Fittiefurr : Ballan- 
tyne of Hollowlee, Forewynd : Horsburgh of 
Horsburgh. — Dine at a country inn, kept by a 
miller, in Earlston, the birth-place and residence 



and, if I am rightly informed, her rime is principally occupied in her 
atteritiois to a little day-school, which not heing sufficient for her 
subsistence, she is obliged to solicit the charity of her benevolent 
neighbours. « Ah, who would love the lyre !' " Cro.mkk. 



of the celebrated Thomas a Rhymer- -fan the 
ruins of his castle- come to BerrywelL 

Wednuday. Dine at Dunse with the farroi n* 
club-company— impossible to do them justice 

Rev. Mr. Smith a famous punster, ami Mr 

Meikle a celebrated mechanic, and inventor of 

the threshing-mills. — Thursday, breakfast at 

Berrywell, and walk into Dunse to see a famous 

knife made by a cutler there, and to he pre- 
sented to an Italian prince. — A pleasant i ide 
with my friend Mr. Robert Ainslie, and bis 
sister to Mr. Thomson's, a man who has newly 
commenced farmer, and has mavr'-d a Mi-* 
Patty Grieve, formerly a flame of Mr. Robert 
Ainslie's. — Company — Miss Jacky Grieve, an 
amiable sister of Mrs. Thomson's, and Mr. 
Hood, an honest, worthy, facetious former, in 
the neighbourhood. 

Friday. — Ride to Berwick — An idle town, 
rudely picturesque. — Meet Lord Brrol in wulu- 
ing round the walls. — His lordship' 8 nattering 
notice of me. — Dine with Mr. Clunzie, mer- 
chant—nothing particular in company or con- 
versation. — Come up a bold shore, and over a 
wild country to Eyemouth — sup and sleep at 
Mr. Grieve's. 

Saturday. Spend the day at Mr. Grieve's — 
made a royal arch mason of St. Abb's Lodge. 1 — 
Mr. William Grieve, the oldest brother, a joy- 
ous, warm-hearted, jolly, clever fellow — takes a 
hearty glass, and sings a good song. — Mr. Robert, 
his brother, and partner in trade, a good fellow, 
but says little. Take a sail after dinner. Fish- 
ing of all kinds pays tithes at Eyemouth. 

Sunday. — A Mr. Robinson, brewer at Ednam, 

sets out w r ith us to Dunbar. 

The Miss Grieves very good girls. — My bard- 
ship's heart got a brush from Bliss Betsey. 

Mr. William Grieve's attachment to the 
family-circle, so fond, that when he is out, 
wdrich by the bye is often the case, he cannot 
go to bed till he see if all his sisters are sleeping 

well Pass the famous Abbey of Coldingham, 

and Pease-bridge. — Call at Mr. Sheriff's, where 
Mr. A. and I dine. — Mr. S. talkative and con- 
ceited. I talk of love to Nancy the whole even- 
ing, while her brother escorts home some com- 
panions like 'himself. — Sir James Hall of Dung- 



- The entry made on this occasion in the Lodge-books of St. Abb'i 
is honourable to 

" The brethren ol the mystic level. 

" Eyemouth, l.OrA May, 1787- 
" At a general encampment held this day, the following bretnrei: 
were made royal archjmasons, viz. Robert Burns, from the Lodge of 
St. James's, Tarbolton, Ayrshire, and Robert Ainslie, from the 
Lodge of St. Luke's, Edinburgh, by James Carmichacl, Win. Grieve^ 
Daniel Dow, John Clay, Robert Grieve, &c. &c. Robert Ainslie 
paid one guinea admission dues ; but on account of R. Burn? s re- 
markable poetical genius, the encampment unanimously agreed tc 
admit him gratis, and considered themselves honoured by havina a 
m/tn of such shining abilities for one of their companions." 

Extracted from the Minute Book of the Lodge by 

IHOVAS BOWHILL. 
5 O 



4J« 



THE BORDER TO UK. 



lass, having heard of my being in the neighbour- 
hood, comes to Mr. Sheriff's to breakfast — 
takes me to see his fine scenery on the stream 
of Dunglass — Douglass the most romantic, sweet 
place I ever saw — Sir James and his lady a 
pleasant happy couple. — lie points out a walk 
for which he has an uncommon respect, as it 
was made by an aunt of his, to whom he owes 
much. 

Miss will accompany me to Dunbar, by 

way of making a parade of me as a sweetheart 
of hers, among her relations. She mounts an 
old cart-horse, as huge and as lean as a house ; a 
rusty old side-saddle without girth, or stirrup, 
but fastened on with an old pillion-girth — her- 
self as fine as hands could make her, in cream- 
coloured riding clothes, hat and feather, &c. — 
I, ashamed of my situation, ride like the devil, 
and almost shake her to pieces on old Jolly — 
get rid of her by refusing to call at her uncle's 
with her. 

Past through the most glorious corn-country 
1 ever saw, till I reach Dunbar, a neat little 
town. — Dine with Provost Fall, an eminent 
merchant, and most respectable character, but 
indescribable, as he exhibits no marked traits. 
Mrs. Fall, a genius in painting; fully more 
clever iu the fine arts and sciences than my 
friend Lady Wauchope, without her consum- 
mate assurance of her own abilities. — Call with 
Mr. Robinson (who, by the bye, I find to be a 
worthy, much respected man, very modest ; 
warm, social heart, which with less good sense 
than his would be perhaps with the children of 
prim precision and pride, rather inimical to that 
respect which is man's due from man) with him 
[ call on Miss Clarke, a maiden in the Scotch 
phrase, a Guid enough, but no brent new :" a 
clever woman, with tolerable ptetensions to 
remark and wit ; while time had blown the 
blushing bud of bashful modesty into the flower 
of easy confidence. She wanted to see what 
sort of raree show an author was ; and to let him 
know, that though Dunbar was but a little town, 
yet it was not destitute of people of parts. 

Breakfast next morning at Skateraw, at Mr. 
Lee's, a farmer of great note. — Mr. Lee, an ex- 
cellent, hospitable, social fellow, rather oldish ; 
warm-hearted and chatty — a most judicious, 
sensible farmer. Mr. Lee detains me till next 
morning. — Company at dinner. — My Rev. ac- 
quaintance Dr. Bowmaker, a reverend, rattling 
old fellow. — Two sea lieutenants ; a cousin of 
the landlord's, a fellow whose looks are of that 
irind which deceived me in a gentleman at 
Kelso, and has often deceived me : a goodly 
handsome figure and face, which incline one to 
give them credit for parts which they have not. 
Mr. Clarke, a much cleverer feljow, but whose 
looks a little cloudy, and his appearance rather 
ungainly, with an every-day observer may pre- 
judice the opinion against him. — Dr. Brown, a 
medical young gentleman from Dunbar, a fellow 
whose face and manners are open and engaging. 
— Leave Skateraw for Dunse next day, along 



with collector , a lad of slender abilities 

and bashfully diffident to an extreme. 

Found Miss Ainslie, the amiable, the sensible, 
the good-humoured, the sweet Miss Ainslie, all 
alone at Berrywell. — Heavenly powers who 
know the weakness of human hearts, support 
mine ! What happiness must I see only to re- 
mind me that I cannot enjoy it ! 

Lammer-muir Hills, from East Lothian to 
Dunse very wild. — Dine with the farmers' club 
at Kelso. Sir John Hume and Mr. Lumsden 
there, but nothing worth remembrance when 
the following circumstance is considered — I 
walk into Dunse before dinner, and out to 
Berrywell in the evening with Miss Ainslie— 
how well-bred, how frank, how good she is ! 
Charming Rachael ! may thy bosom never be 
wrung by the evils of this life of sorrows, or by 
the villainy of this world's sons ! 

Thursday. — Mr. Ker and I set out to dine at 
Mr. Hood's on our way to England. 

I am taken extremely ill with strong feverish 
symptoms, and take a servant of Mr. Hood's to 
watch me all night — embittering remorse scares 
my fancy at the gloomy forebodings of death.— 
I am determined to live for the future in such a 
manner as not to be scared at the approach of 
death — I am sure I could meet him with indif- 
ference, but for "The something beyond the 
grave." — Mr. Hood agrees to accompany us to 
England if we will wait till Sunday. 

Friday. — I go with Mr. Hood to see a roup of 
an unfortunate farmer's stock — rigid economy, 
and decent industry, do you preserve me from 
being the principal dramatis persona in such a 
scene of horror. 

Meet my good old friend Mr. Ainslie, who 
calls on Mr. Hood in the evening to take fare- 
well of my hardship. This day I feel myself 
warm with sentiments of gratitude to the Great 
Preserver of men, who has kindly restored me 
to health and strength once more. 

A pleasant walk with my young friend Dou- 
glas Ainslie, a sweet, modest, clever young fellow. 

Sunday, 27th May. — Cross Tweed, and traverse 
the moors through a wild country till I reach 
Alnwick — Alnwick Castle a seat of the Duke of 
Northumberland, furnished in a most princely 
manner. — A Mr. Wilkin, agent of His Grace's, 
shows us the house and policies. Mr. Wilkin, 
a discreet, sensible, ingenious man. 

Monday. — Come, still through by-ways, to 
Warkworth. where we dine. — Hermitage and 
old castle. Warkworth situated very picturesque, 
with Coquet Island, a small rocky spot, the seat 
of an old monastery, facing it a little in the sea; 
and the small but romantic river Coquet, run- 
ning through it. — Sleep at Morpeth, a pleasant 
enough little town, and on next day to New- 
castle. — Meet with a very agreeable, sensible 
fellow, a Mr. Chattox, who shows us a great 
many civilities, and who dines and sups with us, 



THM HOKDKK TOUR 



410 



Wednesday. — Left Newcastle early in the morn- 
ing, and rode over a fine country to Hexham to 
breakfast — from Hexham to Wardrue, the cele- 
brated Spa, where we slept. — Thursday — reach 
Longtown to dine, and part there with my good 
friends Messrs Hood and Ker — A hiring day in 
Longtown — I am uncommonly happy to see 
so many young folks enjoying life. — I come to 
Carlisle. — (Meet a strange enough romantic ad- 
venture by the way, in falling in with a girl and 
her married sister — the girl, after some over- 
tures of gallantry on my side, sees me a little cut 
with the bottle, and offers to take me in for a 
Gretna-green affair. — I not being such a gull as 
she imagines, make an appointment with her, by 



way of im><? la bagatelle, to hold a conference on 
it when we reach town. — I meet her En town 
and give her a brush of caressing, and a bottle of 
cyder; but finding herself an peu trompi in her 
man she Bheera off.) Next day I meet my good 
friend, Mr. Mitchell, and walk with him round 
the town and its environs, and through liu print- 
ing-works, &c. — lour or five hundred people env 
ployed, many of them women and children. — 

Dine with Mr. Mitchell, and leave Carlisle. — 

Come by the coast to Annan. — Overtaken on 
the way by a curious old fish of a shot 
and miner, from Cumberland mines, 

[Here the Manuscript abruptly terminate*,] 






THE HIGHLAND TOUR. 



25lh August, 1787- 
I leave Edinburgh for a northern tour, in com- 
pany with my good friend Mr. Nicol, whose 
originality of humour promises me much enter- 
tainment. — Linlithgow — a fertile improved 
country — West Lothian. The more elegance 
and luxury among the farmers, I always observe 
in equal proportion, the rudeness and stupidity 
of the peasantry. This remark I have made all 
over the Lothians, Merse, Roxburgh, &c. For 
this, among other reasons, I think that a man of 
romantic taste, a " Man of Feeling," will be 
better pleased with the poverty, but intelligent 
minds of the peasantry in Ayrshire (peasantry 
they are all below the justice of peace) than the 
opulence of a club of Merse farmers, when at 
the same time, he considers the vandalism of their 
plough-folks, &c. I carry this idea so far, that 
an uninclosed, half improven country is to me 
actually more agreeable, and gives me more 
pleasure as a prospect, than a country cultivated 
like a garden. — Soil about Linlithgow light and 
thin. — The town carries the appearance of rude, 
decayed grandeur — charmingly rural, retired 
situation. The old royal palace a tolerably fine, 
but melancholy ruin — sweetly situated on a 
small elevation, by the brink of a loch. Shown 
the room where the beautiful, injured Mary 
Queen of Scots was born — a pretty good old 
Gothic church. The infamous stool of repent- 
ance standing, in the old Romish way, on a 
lofty situation. 

What a poor, pimping business is a Presbyte- 
rian place of worship ; dirty, narrow, and 
squalid ; stuck in a corner of old popish gran- 
deur such as Linlithgow, and much more, 
Melrose ! Ceremony and show, if judiciously 
thrown in, absolutely necessary for the bulk of 
.mankind, both in religious and civil matters. — 
L)me, — Go to my friend Smith's at Avon print- 
field — find nobody but Mrs. Miller, an agreeable, 
sensible, modest, good body ; as useful but not 
SO ornamental as Fielding's Miss Western — not 



rigidly polite a la Frmcais but easy, hospitably 
and housewifely. 

An old lady from Paisley, a Mrs. Lawson, 
whom I promise to call for in Paisley — like old 

lady W and still more like Mrs. C- , her 

conversation is pregnant with strong sense and 
just remark, but like them, a certain air of self- 
importance and a duresse in the eye, seem to indi- 
cate, as the Ayrshire wife observed of her cow, 
that " she had a mind o' her aim" 

Pleasant view of Dunfermline and the rest of 
the fertile coast of Fife, as we go down to thafc 
dirty, ugly place, Borrowstones — see a horse- 
race and call on a friend of Mr. Nicol's, a Bailie 
Cowan, of whom I know too little to attempt 
his portrait — Come through the rich carse of 
Falkirk to pass the night. Falkirk nothing re- 
markable except the tomb of Sir John the Gra- 
ham, over which, in the succession of time, four 
stones have been placed. — Camelon, the ancient 
metropolis of the Picts, now a small village in 
the neighbourhood of Falkirk. — Cross the grand 
canal to Carron. — Come past Larbert and ad- 
mire a fine monument of cast-iron erected by 
Mr. Bruce, the African traveller, to his wife. 

Pass Dunipace, a place laid out with fine taste 
— a charming amphitheatre bounded by Denny 
village, and pleasant seats down the way to Du- 
nipace. — The Carron running down the bosom 
of the whole makes it one of the most charm- 
ing little prospects I have seen. 

Dine at Auchinbowie — Mr. Monro an excel 
lent, worthy old man — Miss Monro an amiable, 
sensible, sweet young woman, much resembling 
Mrs. Grierson. Come to Bannockburn— Shown 
the old house where James III. finished so tra- 
gically his unfortunate life. The field of Ban- 
nockburn — the hole where glorious Bruce 
set his standard. Here no Scot can pass 
uninterested. — I fancy to myself that 1 see my 
gallant, heroic countrymen coming o'er the hill 
and down upon the plunderers of their conn- 



TI1K IIKHII.AND TOL'Ii. 



•121 



try, the murderers of their fathers ; noble re- 
venge, and just hate, glowing in every vein, 
striding more and more eagerly as they ap- 
proach the oppressive, insulting, blood-thirsty 
foe ! I see them meet in gloriously-triumphant 
congratulation on the victorious field, exulting 
in their heroic royal leader, and rescued liberty 
and independence ! Come to Stirling. — Monday 
go to Harvieston. Go to see Caudron linn, and 
Rumbling brig, and Diel's mill. Return in the 
evening. Supper — Messrs. Doig, the school- 
master; Bell; and Captain Forrester of the 
castle — Doig a queerish figure, and something 
of a pedant — Bell a joyous fellow, who sings a 
good song. — Forrester a merry, swearing kind 
of man, with a dash of the sodger. 

Tuesday Morning — Breakfast with Captain 
Forrester — Ochel Hills — Devon River — Forth 
and Tieth — Allan River — Strathallan, a fine 
country, but little improved — Cross Earn to 
Crieff — Dime and go to Arbruchil — cold recep- 
tion at Arbruchil — a most romantically pleasant 
ride up Earn, by Auchtertyre and Comrie to 
Arbruchil — Sup at Crieff. 

Wednesday Morning. — Leave Crieff — Glen 
Amond — Amond river — Ossian's grave — Loch 
Fruoch — Glenquaich — Landlord and landlady 
remarkable characters — Taymouth described in 
rhyme — Meet the Hon. Charles Tovvnshend. 

Thursday. — Come down Tay to Dunkeld — 
Glenlyon House — Lyon River — Druid's Temple 
— three circles of stones — the outer-most sunk 
— the second has thirteen stones remaining — the 
innermost has eight — two large detached ones 
like a gate, to the south-east — Say prayers in it 
— Pass Taybridge — Aberfeldy — described in 
rhyme — Castle Menzies — Inver — Dr. Stewart — 
Sup. 

Friday. — "Walk with Mrs. Stewart and Beard 
to Birnam top — fineprospect down Tay — Craigie- 
burn hills — Hermitage on the Bran water, with 
a picture of Ossian — Breakfast with Dr. Stew- 
art — Neil Gow 1 plays — a short, stout-built, ho- 



Another northern bard has sketched this eminent musician- 
" The blythe Strathspey springs up, reminding some 
Of nights when Gow's old arm, (nor old the tale,) 
Unceasing, save when reeking cans went round, 
Made heart and heel leap light as bounding roe. 
Alas ! no more shall wo behold that look 
So venerable, yet so blent with mirth, 
And festive joy sedate ; that ancient garb 
Unvaried, — tartan hose, and bonnet blue ' 
No more shall Beauty's partial eye draw forth 
The full intoxication of his strain, 
Mellifluous, strong, exuberantly rich ' 
No more, amid the pauses of the dance, 
Shall he repeat those measures, that in days 
Of other years, could soothe a failing prince, 
And light his visage with a transient smile 
Of melancholy joy, — like autumn sun 
Gilding a sear tree with a passing beam • 
Or play to sportive children on the green 
Dancing at gloamin hour; on willing cheer 
With strains unboughtjthnsheplierd's bridal day.* 

British Georgia v. 8. ■ 



nest Highland figure, With his gr.ivi.sh hair shed 

on his honest social brow an interesting face, 
marking strong sense, kind openheartedness, 

mixed with unini.strusting simplicity— Vint Inn 

house— Margei Gow. 

Ride up Timnnei River to Blair- Fascallya 
beautiful romantic nest— wild grandeur of the 

puss of Gillicrankie —visit the gallant Lord 
Dundee's stone. 

Blair — Sup with the Dnchess — easy and happy 
from the manners of the family confirmed iu 
my good opinion of my friend Walker. 

Saturday. — Visit the scenes round Blair— fine, 
but spoiled with had taste — Tilt and G 
rivers— Falls on the Tilt— Heather seat— Ride 
in company with Sir William Murray and Mr. 
Walker, to Loch Tummel — meandringfl of the 
Rannach, which runs through quondam Btrnan 
Robertson's estate from Loch Etannacn to Loch 
Tummel — Dine at Blair— Company — Genera] 

Murray Captain Murray, an honest Tar 

Sir William Murray, an honest, worthy man, 
but tormented with the hypochondria — Mrs. 
Graham, belle et aimable — Miss Catchcart — 
Mrs. Murray, a painter — Mrs. King — Duchess 
and fine family, the Marquis, Lords James, 
Edward, and Robert — Ladies Charlotte, Emilia, 
and children dance — Sup — Mr. Graham of 
Fintray. 

Come up the Game — Falls of Bruar— Dalde- 
cairoch — Dalwhinnie — Dine — Snow on the hills 
17 feet deep — No corn from Loch-Gairie to 
Dalwhinnie — Cross the Spey, and come down 
the stream to Pitnin— Straths rich — les environ* 
picturesque — Craigow bill — Ruthven of Ba 
denoch — Barracks — wild and magnificent — 
Rothemurche on the other side, and Glenmore 
— Grant of Rothemurche's poetry — told me by 
the Duke of Gordon — Strathspey, rich and ro- 
mantic — Breakfast at Aviemore, a wild spot — 
dine at Sir James Grant's — Lady Grant, a sweet. 
pleasant body — come through mist and darkness 
to Dulsie, to lie. 

Tuesday. — Findhorn river — rocky banks — 
come on to Castle Cawdor, where Macbeth 
murdered King Duncan — saw the bed in which 
King Duncan was stabbed — dine at Kilravock 
— Mrs. Rose, sen. a true chieftain's wife — Fort 
George — Inverness. 

Wednesday. — Loch Ness — Braes of Xcss— Ge- 
neral's hut — Falls of Fyers — Urquhart Castle 
and Strath. 

Thursday. — Come over Culloden Muir — reflec- 
tions on the field of battle — breakfast at Kilra- 
vock — old Mrs. Rose, sterling sense, warm 
heart, strong passions, and honest pride, all in 
an uncommon degree — Mrs. Rose, jun. a little 
milder than the mother — this perhaps owing to 
her being younger — Mr. Grant, minister at 
Calder, resembles Mr. Scott at Inverlcithing- - 
Mrs. Rose and Mrs. Grant accompany us to 
5 P 



422 



THE HIGHLAND TOUR. 



Kildrummie — two young ladies — Miss Rose, 
who sung two Gaelic songs, beautiful and lovely 
— Miss Sophia Brodie, most agreeable and ami- 
able — both of them gentle, mild ; the sweetest 
creatures on earth, and happiness be with them ! 
— Dine at Nairn — fall in with a pleasant enough 
gentleman, Dr. Stewart, who had been long 
abroad with his father in the forty-five ; and 
Mr. Falconer, a spare, irascible, warm-hearted 
Norland, and a Nonjuror — Brodie-house to 
lie. 

Friday. — Forres — famous stone at Forres — 
Mr. Brodie tells me that the muir where Shake- 
speare lays Macbeth's witch-meeting is still 
haunted — that the country folks won't pass it by 
night. 

* * * * 

Venerable ruins of Elgin Abbey — A grander 
effect at first glance than Melrose, but not near 
so beautiful — Cross Spey to Fochabers — fine 
palace, worthy of the generous proprietor — Dine 
— company, Duke and Duchess, Ladies Char- 
lotte and Magdeline, Col. Abercrombie, and 

Lady, Mr. Gordon and Mr. , a clergyman, a 

venerable, aged figure — the Duke makes me 
happier than ever great man did — noble, 
princely ; yet mild, condescending, and affable ; 
gay and kind — the Duchess witty and sensible 

-God bless them ! 

Come to Cuilen to lie — hitherto the country 
is sadly poor and unimproven. 

Come to Aberdeen — meet with Mr. Chalmers, 
printer, a facetious fellow — Mr. Ross a fine fel- 
low, like Professor Tytler, — Mr. Marshal one of 
the poetcB rninories — Mr. Sheriffs, author of 
"Jamie and Bess," a little decripid body with 
some abilities — Bishop Skinner, a nonjuror, son 
of the author of S£ Tullochgorum," a man whose 
mild, venerable manner is the most marked of 
any in so young a man — Professor Gordon, a 
good-natured, jolly-looking professor — Aber- 
deen, a lazy town — near Stonhive, the coast a 
good deal romantic — meet my relation — Robert 



Burns, writer, in Stonhive, one of those who love 
fun, a gill, and a punning joke, and have not a 
bad heart — his wife a sweet hospitable body, 
without any affectation of what is called town- 
breeding. 

Tuesday. — Breakfast with Mr. Burns — lie at 

Lawrence Kirk — Album library — Mrs. a 

jolly, frank, sensible, love-inspiring widow — 
Howe of the Mearns, a rich, cultivated, but still 
uninclosed country, 

Wednesday. — Cross North Esk river and a 
rich country to Craigow. 

* * * # 

Go to Montrose, that finely-situated handsome 
town — breakfast at Muthie, and sail along that 
wild rocky coast, and see the famous caverns, 
particularly the Gairiepot — land and dine at 
Arbroath — stately ruins of Arbroath Abbey — 
come to Dundee, through a fertile country — 
Dundee a low-lying, but pleasant town — old 
Steeple — Tayfrith — Droughty Castle, a finely 
situated ruin, jutting into the Tay. 

Friday. — Breakfast with the Miss Scots — Misa 
Bess Scott like Mrs. Greenfield — my hardship 
almost in love with her — come through the 
rich harvests and fine hedge-rows of the Carse 
of Gowrie, along the romantic margin of the 
Grampian hills, to Perth — fine, fruitful, hilly, 
woody country round Perth. 

Saturday Morning. — Leave Perth — come np 
Strathearn to Endermay — fine, fruitful, culti- 
vated Strath — the scene of " Bessy Bell, and 
Mary Gray," near Perth — fine scenery on the 
banks of the May — Mrs. Belcher, gawcie, frank, 
affable, fond of rural sports, hunting, &c. — Lie 
at Kinross — reflections in a fit of the colic. 

Sunday. — Pass through a cold, barren country 
to Queensferry — dine — cross the ferry and on to 
Edinburgh. 



THE POET'S ASSIGNMENT OF HIS WORKS. 



Know all men by these presents that I Robert Burns of Mosagiel : whereas I intend to leave 
Scotland and go abroad, and having acknowledged myself the father of a child named Elizabeth, 
begot upon Elizabeth Paton in Largieside : and whereas Gilbert Burns in Mosagiel, my brother, 
has become bound, and hereby binds and obliges himself to aliment, clothe and educate my said 
natural child in a suitable manner as if she was his own, incase her mother chuse to part with her, 
and that until she arrive at the age of fifteen years. Therefore, and to enable the said Gilbert 
Burns to make good his said engagement, wit ye me to have assigned, disponed, conveyed and 
made over to, and in favors of, the said Gilbert Burns, his heirs, executors, and assignees, who are 
always to be bound in like manner with himself, all and sundry goods, gear, corns, cattle, 
nolt, sheep, household furniture, and all other moveable effects of whatever kind that I shall leave 
behind me on my departure from this Kingdom, after allowing for my part of the conjunct del its 
due by the said Gilbert Burns and me as joint tacksmen of the farm of Mossgiel. And particularly 
without prejudice of the foresaid generality, the profits that may arise from the publicatiou of my 
poems presently in the press. And also, I hereby dispone and convey to him in trust for behoof of 
my said natural daughter, the copyright of said poems in so far as I can dispose of the same by law, 
after she arrives at the above age of fifteen years complete. Surrogating and substituting the said 
Gilbert Burns my brother and his foresaids in my full right, title, room and place of the whole pre- 
mises, with power to him to intromit witn, and dispose upon the same at pleasure;, and in general to 
do every other thing in the premises that I could have done myself before granting hereof, but 
always with and under the conditions before expressed. And I oblige myself to warrand this dis- 
position and assignation from my own proper fact and deed allenarly. Consenting to the registra- 
tion hereof in the books of Council and Session, or any other Judges books competent, therein to 
remain for preservation, and constitute. 

Proculars, &c. In witness whereof I have wrote and signed these presents, consisting of this 
and the preceding page, on stamped paper, with my own hand, at the Mossgiel, the twenty- 
second day of July, one thousand seven hundred and eighty-six years. 

(Signed) ROBERT BURNS. 



Upon the twenty-fourth day of July, one thousand seven hundred and eighty-six years, I, Wil- 
liam Chalmer, Notary Publick, past to the Mercat Cross of Ayr head Burgh of the Sheriffdome 
thereof, and thereat I made due and lawful intimation of the foregoing disposition and assignation 
to his Majesties lieges, that they might not pretend ignorance thereof by reading the same over in 
presence of a number of people assembled. Whereupon William Crooks, writer, in Ayr, as 
attorney for the before designed Gilbert Burns, protested that the same was lawfully intimated, 
and asked and took instruments in my hands. These things were done betwixt the hours of ten 
and eleven forenoon, before and in presence of AVilliam M'Cubbin, and William Eaton, apprentices 
to the Sheriff Clerk of Ayr, witnesses to the premises. 

(Signed) WILLIAM CHALMER, N. T. 

William M'Cubbin, Witness 
William Eaton, Witness. 



I> 









GLOSSARY. 



f< TuE ch and gh have always the guttural sound. The sound of the English diphthong no is commonly 
spelled ou. The French u, a sound which often occurs in the Scottish language, is marked 00 or ui. Thr », 
in genuine Scottish words, except when forming a diphthong, or followed by an emute after a single consonant, 
sounds generally like the broad English a in wall. The Scottish diphthong ae always, and ea very often 
sound like the French e masculine. The Scottish diphthong ey sounds like the Latin ei. 



A\ all. 

Aback, away, aloof, backwards. 

Abeigh, at a shy distance. 

A boon, above, up. 

Abread, abroad, in sight, to publish. 

Abreed, in breadth. 

Ae, one. 

Aff, off. 

Aff-loof, off-hand, extempore, 

without premeditation. 
Afore, before. 
Aft, oft. 
Aften, often. 
Agley, off the right line, wrong, 

awry. 
Aiblins, perhaps. 
Ain, own. 
Aim, iron, a tool of that metal, a 

mason's chisel. 
Airles, earnest money. 
Airl-penny, a silver penny given 

as erles or hiring money. 
Airt, quarter of the heaven, point 

of the compass. 
Agee, on one side. 
Attour, moreover, beyond, besides. 
Aith, an oath. 
Aits, oats. 
Aiver, an old horse. 
Ah le, a hot cinder, an ember of wood. 
A lake, alas. 
Alane, alone. 

Akwart, awkward, athwart. 
Amaist, almost. 
Among, among. 
An', and, if. 
Ance, once. 
Ane, one. 
Anent, overagainst, concerning 

about. 
Anither, another. 
Ase, ashes of wood, remains of a 

hearth fire. 
4steer, abroad, stirring in a lively 
manner. 



Aqueesh, between. 

Aught, possession, as " in a' my 
aught," in all my possession. 

Auld, old. 

Anld-farran\ auld farrant, saga- 
cious, prudent, cunning. 

Ava, at all. 

Awa, away, begone. 

AwfiC, awful. 

Auld-shoon, old shoes literally, a 
discarded lover metaphori- 
cally. 

Aumos, gift to a beggar. 

Aumos-dish, a beggar's dish in 
which the aumos is received. 

Awn, the beard of barley, oats, 
&e. 

Awnie, bearded. 

Ayont, beyond. 



Ba\ ball. 

Babie-clouts, child's first clothes. 

Backets, ash-boards, as pieces of 

backet for removing ashes. 
Backlins, comin', coming back, 

returning. 
Back-yett, private gate. 
Baide, endured, did stay. 
Baggie, the belly. 
Bairn, a child. 
Bairn-time, a family of children, 

a brood. 
Baith, both. 

Ballets, ballants, ballads. 
Ban, to swear. 
Bane, bone. 

Bang, to beat, to strive, to excel. 
Bannock, flat, round, soft cake. 
Bardie, diminutive of bard. 
Barefit, barefooted. 
Barley-bree, barley-broo, blood of 

barley, malt liquor. 
Barmie, of, or like barm, yeasty. 
Batch, a crew, a gang. 
Batts, botts. 



Banckie-bird, the bat. 

Baitdrons, a cat. 

Ban Id, bold. 

Bo.ws'nt, having a white stupe 

down the face. 
B<?, to let be, to give over, to cease. 
Beets, boots. 
Bear, barley. 
Bearded-bear, barley with its 

bristly head. 
Beastie, diminutive of beast. 
Beet, heek, to add fuel to a tire, to 

bask. 
Beld, bald. 
Belyve, by and by, preseti'lv 

quickly. 
Ben, into the spence or parlour. 
Benmost-bore, the remote-t hole, 

the innermost rece-s. 
Bethankit, grace after meat. 
Beuk, a book. 
Bicker, a kind of wooden dish, a 

short rapid race. 
Bickering, careering, hurrying 

with quarrelsome intent. 
Birnie, birnie ground is wher; 
thick heath has been burnt, 
leaving the birns, or uncon- 
sumed stalks, standing up 
sharp and stubley. 
Bie, or Held, shelter, a sheltered 
place, the sunny nook of I 
wood. 
Bien, wealthy, plentiful. 
Big, to build. 
Biggin, building, a house. 
Biggit, built. 
Bi'U, a bull. 
Bdlie, a brother, a young fellow, 

a companion. 
Bing, a heap of grain, potatoes, 

&c 
Birdie-c:cks, young cocks, still be- 
longing to the brood. 
Birk, birch. 

Birkie, a clever, a for^sjr? ona.. 
ceited follow. 

3 (i 



GLOSSARY. 



Ztfmng, the noise of partridges 
when they rise. 

Birses* bristles. 

Bit, crisis, nick of time, place. 

fifes, a bustle, to buzz. 

Black's the grun\ as black as the 
ground. 

Blastie, a shrivelled dwarf, a term 
of contempt, full of mischief. 

Blastit, blasted. 

Blate, bashful, sheepish. 

Blather, bladder. 

Bland, a flat piece of anything, to 
slap. 

Blaudin-shower, a heavy driving 
rain ; a blauding signifies a 
beating. 

Blair, to blow, to boast : " blnw 
i' my lug," to flatter. 

Bleerit, bedimmed, eyes hurt with 
weeping. 

Bleer my een, dim my eyes. 

Blpezing, bleeze, blazing, flame. 

Blellum, idle talking fellow. 

Blether, to talk idly. 

Bleth'rin, talking idly. 

Blink, a little while, a smiling 
look, to look kindly, to shine 
by fits. 

Blinker, a term of contempt: it 
means, too, a lively engaging 
girl. 

BUnkiti', smirking, smiling with 
the eyes, looking lovingly. 

Bhrt and blearh, out-burst of grief, 
with wet eyes. 

Blue-gown, one of those beggars 
who get annually, on the 
king's birth-day, a blue cloak 
or gown with a badge. 

Bin id, blood, 

Bhipe, a shred, a large piece. 

Bobhit, the obeisance made by a 
lady. 

Bovk, to vomit, to gush intermit- 
tently. 

Booked, gushed, vomited. 

Bodle, a copper coin of the value 
of two pennies Scots. 

Bogie, a small morass. 

Bonnie,or bonnv, handsome, beau- 
tiful. 

Bonvock, a kind of thick cake of 
bread, a small jannock or loaf 
made of oatmeal. See ban- 
nock. 

Boord, a board. 

Bore, a hole in a wall, a cranny. 

Boortree, the shrub elder, planted 
much of old in hedges of barn- 
yards and gardens. 

Boost, behoved, must needs, wil- 
fulness. 
Botch, blotch* an angry tumour. 
Bousing, drinking, making merry 

with liquor. 
Bonk, body. 
Bow-kail, cabbage. 
B ov-honght, out-kneed, crooked at 

the knee joint. 
Bov% bv&lt, bended crooked. 



Brackens* fern. 

Brae, a declivity, a precipice, the 
slope of a hill. 

Braid, broad. 

Braik, an instrument for rough- 
dressing flax. 

Brainge, to run rashly forward, to 
churn violently. 

Braing't, "the horse braing't," 
plunged and fretted in the 
harness. 

Brak, broke, became insolvent. 

Branks, a kind of wooden curb for 
horses. 

Brankie, gaudy. 

Brash, a sudden illness. 

Brats, coarse clothes, rags, &c. 

Brattle, a short race, hurry, fury. 

Braw, fine, handsome. 

Brawlys, or braulie, very well, 
finely, heartily, bravely. 

Braxies, diseased sheep. 

Breastie, diminutive of breast. 

Breastit, did spring up or forward ; 
the act of mounting a horse. 

Brechame, a horse-collar. 

Breckens, fern. 

Breef, an invulnerable or irresist- 
ible spell- 

Breeks, breeches. 

Brent, bright, clear; c 'a brent 
brow," a brow high and 
smooth. 

Brewin\ brewing, gathering. 

Bree, juice, liquid. 

Brig, a bridge. 

Brunstane, brimstone. 

Brisket, the breast, the bosom. 

Brither, a brother. 

Brock, a badger. 

Brogue, a hum, a trick. 

Broo, broth, liquid, water. 

Broose, broth, a race at country 
weddings ;hewhofirstreaches 
the bridegroom's house on re- 
turning from church wins the 
broose. 

Browst, ale, as much malt liquor 
as is brewed at a time, 

Brugh, a burgh. 

Bruilsie, a broil, combustion. 

Brunt, did burn, burnt. 

Brust, to burst,, burst. 

Buchun-bullers, the boiling of the 
sea among the rocks on the 
coast of Buchan. 

Buckskin, an inhabitant of Vir- 
ginia. 

Buff our beef, thrash us fO;md T y, 
g iv e us a beating behind and 
before. 

Buff and blue, the colours of the 
Whigs. 

Buirdly, stout made, broad built. 
Bum-clock, the humming beetle 
that flies in the summer even- 
ings. 
Bummin, humming as bees, buz- 
zing. 
Bummle, to blunder, a drone, an 
idle fellow. 



Bummler, a blunderer, one whose 
noise is greater than his work 

Bunker, a window-seat. 

Bute, did bear. 

Burn, burnie, water, a rivulet, a 
small stream which is heard 
as it runs. 

Burniewin , , burn the wind, the 
blacksmith. 

Burr-thistle, the thistle of Scot- 
land. 

Buskit, dressed. 

Buskit-nest, an ornamented resi- 
dence. 

Busle, a bustle. 

But, bot, without. 

But and ben. the country kitchen 
and parlour. 

By himself, lunatic, distracted, be- 
side himself. 

Byke, a bee-hive, a wild bee-nest. 

Byre, a cow-house, a sheep-pen. 

C. 

Ca', to call, to name, to drive. 
Ca't, called, driven, calved. 
Cadger, a carrier. 
Cadie, or caddie, a person, a young 

fellow, a public messenger. 
Caff, chaff. 
Caird, a tinker, a maker of horn 

spoons and teller of fortunes. 
Cairn, a loose heap of stones, a 

rustic monument. 
Calf-ward, a small enclosure for 

calves. 
Calimanco, a certain kind of cotton 

cloth worn by ladies. 
Callan, a boy. 
Caller, fresh. 
Callet, a loose woman, a follower 

of a camp. 
Cannic, gentle, mild, dexterous. 
Cannalie, dexterously, gently. 
Cantie, ox canty, cheerful, merry 
Cantraip, a charm, a spell. 
Cap-stane, cape-stone, topmost 

stone of the building. 
Car, a rustic cart with or without 

wheels. 
Careerin\ moving cheerfully. 
Castock, the stalk of a cabbage. 
Carl, an old man. 
Carl-hemp, the male stalk of hemp, 

easily known by its superior 

strength and stature, and 

being without seed. 
Carlin, a stout old woman. 
Cartes, cards. 
Caudron, a cauldron. 
Cauk and keel, chalk and red clay. 
Cauld, cold. 
Caup, a wooden drinking vessel, a 

cup. 
Cavie, a hen-coop. 
Chanter, drone of a bagpipe. 
Chap, a person, a fellow. 
Chaup, a stroke, a blow. 
Cheek fir chow, close *nd muted. 

brotherly, side by sidft 



GLOSSARY. 



C'kcekit, cheeked. 
Cheep, a chirp, to chirp. 
Chiei, or cheat, a young fellow. 
Chimla, or chimlie, a fire-grate, 

fire-place. 
Chimlu-lug, the fire-side. 
Chirps, cries of a young bird. 
Chittering, shivering, trembling. 
Chockin, choking. 
Chow, to chew ; a quid of tobacco. 
Chuckle, a brood-hen; 
Chuff! e, fat-faced. 
Clachan, a small village about a 

church, a hamlet. 
Claise, or clues, clothes. 
Claith, cloth. 
Claithing. clothing. 
Ciavers and havers, agreeable non- 
sense, to talk foolishly. 
Clapper-claps, the clapper of a 

mill ; it is now silenced- 
Clap-clack, clapper of a mill. 
Clartie, dirty, filthy. 
Clarkit, wrote. 
Clash, an idle tale. 
Clatter, to tell little idle stories, 

an idle story. 
Claught, snatched at, laid hold of. 
Claut, to clean, to scrape. 
Cluuted, scraped. 
Claw, to scratch. 
Clecd, to clothe. 
Cleek, hook, snatch. 
Cleekin, a brood of chickens, or 

ducks. 
Clegs, the gad flies. 
Clinkiu, u clinking down," sitting 

down hastily. 
Clinkum-bell, the church bell ; he 

who rings it ; a sort of beadle. 
Clips, wool-shears. 
Cti.shmaclaver, idle conversation. 
Clock, to hatch, a beetle. 
Clockin, hatchin. 

Cloot, thehoof of a cow, sheep, &c 
Clootie, a familiar name for the 

devil. 
Clour, a bump, or swelling, after 

a blow. 
Cloutin, repairing with cloth. 
CI uds, clouds. 
Clunk, the sound in setting down 

an empty bottle. 
Coaxin, wheedling. 
Coble, a fishing-boat. 
Cod, a pillow. 
Coft, bought. 

Cog, and Coggie, a wooden dish. 
Coila, from Kyle, a district in 

Ayrshire, so called, saith tra- 

iition, from Coil, or Coilus, 

a Pictish monarch. 
Collie, a general, and sometimes a 

particular name for country 

curs. 
Collie-shangie, a quarrel among 

dogs, an Irish row. 
Commaun, command. 
Convoyed, accompanied lovingly. 
Cool'd, in her linens, cool'd in her 
weatn-shift. 



Cood, the cud. 

Coof, a blockhead, a ninny 

Cookit, appeared and disappeared 

by fits. 
Cooser, a stallion. 
Coost, did cast. 

Coot, the ancle, a species of water- 
fowl. 
Corbies, blood crows. 
Cootie, a wooden dish, rough -} « •-- 

god. 
Core, corps, party, clan. 
Corn't, fed with oats. 
Cotter, the inhabitant of a cot- 
house, or cottage. 
Couthie, kind, loving. 
Cove, a cave. 
Cowe, to terrify, to keep under, to 

lop. 
Cowp, to barter, to tumble over. 
Cowp the cran, to tumble a full 

bucket or basket. 
Coivpit, tumbled. 
Cowrin, cowering. 
Cowte, a colt. 
Cosie, snug. 

Crabbit, crabbed, fretful. 
Creuks, a disease of horses. 
Crack, conversation, to converse, 

to boast. 
Crackin', cracked, conversing, 

conversed. 
Craft, or cmj't, a field near a house, 

in old husbandry. 
Craigj craigie, neck. 
Craiks, cries or calls incessantly, a 

bird, the corn-rail. 
Crambo-clink, or crambo-jingle, 

rhymes, doggrel verses. 
Crank, the noise of an ungreased 

wheel — metaphorically in- 
harmonious verse. 
Crankous, fretful, captious. 
Cranreuch, the hoar-frost, called 

in Nithsdale "frost-rhyme." 
Crap, a crop, to crop. 
Craw, a crow of a cock, a rook. 
Creel, a basket, to have one's wits 

in a creel, to be crazed, to be 

fascinated. 
Creshie, greasy. 

Crood, or Croud, to coo as a dove. 
Croon, a hollow and continued 

moan ; to make a noise like 

the low roar of a bull; to 

hum a tune. 
Crooning, humming. 
Crouchie, crook-backed. 
Crouse, cheerful, courageous. 
Crously, cheerfully, courageously. 
Crowdie, a composition of oatmeal, 

boiled water and butter ; 

sometimes made from the 

broth of beef, mutton, &c. &c. 
Crowdie time, breakfast time. 
Crowlin, crawling, a deformed 

creeping thing. 
Crummie's nicks, marks on the 

horns of a cow. 
Crummock, Crummet % a cow with 

crooked horns. 



Crummock drtddie, watt ' 

leaning on a itafl 

crooked head. 
Crump^rumpin, hard ami brittle, 

spoken o: bit l 

yielding to t he foot. 

Cniut, a blO« on • 
a Cttd 

Cuddle, to daip and 

Cum n icfc, a short staff, ■ 

crooked head. 
Curcli, a covering for the heud. a 

kerchief. 
Curehie, a curtsey, female 

sance. 
Cm r it ■,-, a player at ■ g ime on 'he 

ice, practieed in Scotland, 

called curling. 
Curlie, curled, whoee bail 

naturally in ringlets. 
Curling, a well-known gai 

the ice. 
Curmurringf mnnnnring, a -light 

rumbling noise. 

Curpiu, the crupper, the run p. 

Curple, the rear. 

Cushut, the dove, or wood-pigeon. 

Cutty, short, a spoon broken in the 
middle. 

Cutty ■Stool, or, Creepte I 

the seat of shame, stool of re- 
pentance. 

D. 

Buddie, a father. 

Da (fin, merriment, fool 

Daft, merry, giddy, foolish ; I 
buckie, mad h\h. 

Daimen, rare, now and then ; dai- 
nicii icker, an ear of corn oc- 
casionally. 

Daintu. pleasant, goo I-bumoured, 

agreeable, r 
Dander ed, wandered. 
Darklint, darkling, without I 
Daurl. to thrash, to abuse. Da 

showers, rain urged by wind. 
Daur, to dare, Daurt, dared. 
Danrg, or Daurk,a day's labour. 
Dour, dtiuriiti, dare, d. I 
Dacoc, diminutive ot Dav 

Davie is of David. 
Dawcl, a large piece. 
Dawin, dawning of the day. 
Dawtit, dawtet, fondled, ca r L 
Dearies, diminutive of de.ir>, 

sweethearts. 
Dearthfu, dear, expensive. 
Deo re, to deafen. 
Deil-ma-care, no matter for nil 

that. 
Deleerit, delirious. 
Descrive, to describe, to perceive 
Deuks, ducks. 
Dight, to wipe, to clean corn from 

ohaff. 
Ding, to worst, to push, to -..r- 

pass, to excel. 
Dink, neat, lady-like. 
Diana, do not 



Dirt, a slight tremulous stroke or 
pain, a tremulous motion. 

Distaiu, stain. 

Dizzen, a dozen. 

Dochter, daughter. 

Doited, stupified, silly from age. 

J)olt, stupified, crazed; also a fool. 

Donsie, unlucky, affectedly neat 
and trim, pettish. 

Doodle, to dandle. 

Dool, sorrow, to lament, to mourn. 

Doos, doves, pigeons. 

Dorty, saucy, nice. 

Douse, or douce, sober, wise, pru- 
dent. 

Doucely, soberly, prudently. 

Dought, was or were able. 

Doup, backside. 

Doup-akelper, one that strikes the 
tail. 

Dour and din, sullen and sallow. 

Douser, more prudent. 

Dow, am or are able, can. 

Doivff, pithless, wanting force. 

Dowie, worn with grief, fatigue, 
&c. half asleep. 

Downa, am or are not able, can- 
not. 

Doylt, wearied, exhausted. 

Dozen, stupified, the effects of age, 
to dozen, to benumb. 

Drab, a young female beggar ; to 
spot, to stain. 

Dray, a drop, to drop. 

Dropping, dropping. 

Draunting, drawling, speaking 
with a sectarian tone. 

Dreep, to ooze, to drop. 

Dreigh, tedious, long about it, lin- 
gering. 

Dribble, drizzling, trickling. 

Driddle, the motion of one who 
tries to dance but moves the 
middle only. 

Drift, a drove, a flight of fowls, 
snow moved by the wind. 

Droddum, the breech. 

Drone, part of a bagpipe, the 
chanter. 

Droop rumpVt, that droops at the 
crupper. 

Droukit, wet. 

Drouth, thirst, drought. 

Drucken, drunken. 

Drumly, muddy. 

Drummock, or Drammock, meal 
and water mixed, raw. 

Drunt, pet, sour humour. 

Dub, a small pond, a hollow filled 

with rain water. 
Duds, rags, clo<hes. 
Duddie, ragged. 
Dung-dang, worsted, pushed, 

stricken. 
Dun ted, throbbed, beaten. 
Dush-dunsh, to push, or butt as 

a ram. 
Dusht, overcome with superstitious 
fear, to drop down suddenly. 
Dyvor, bankrupt, or about to be- 
come one. 



E. 

Ee\ the eye. 

Een, the eyes, the evening. 

Eebree, the eyebrow. 

Benin'', the evening. 

Eerie, frighted, haunted, dreading 
spirits. 

Eild, old age. 

Elbuck, the elbow. 

Eldritch, ghastly, frightful, elvish. 

En', end. 

Enbrugh, Edinburgh. 

Eneugh and aneuch, enough. 

Especial, especially. 

Ether-stone, stone formed by ad- 
ders, an adder bead. 

Ettle, to try, attempt, aim. 

Eydent, diligent. 



Fa\ fall, lot, to fall, fate. 

Fa 1 that, to enjoy, to try, to inherit. 

Faddom , t, fathomed, measured 

with the extended arms. 
Faes, foes. 

Faem, foam of the sea. 
Faiket, forgiven or excused, abated, 

a demand. 
Fainness, gladness, overcome with 

joy. 

Fairin', fairing, a present brought 
from a fair. 

Falloio, fellow. 

Fand, did find. 

Farl, a cake of bread ; third part 
of a cake. 

Fash, trouble, care, to trouble, to 
care for. 

Fasheous, troublesome. 

Fasht, troubled. 

Fasten e'en, Fasten's even. 

Fanght, fight. 

Faugh, a single furrow, out of lea, 
fallow. 

Fauld, and Fald, a fold for sheep, 
to fold. 

Faut, fault. 

Fawsont, decent, seemly. 

Feal, loyal, siedfast. 

Fearful, fearful, frightful. 

FearH, affrighted. 

Feat, neat, spruce, clever. 

Fecht, to fight. 

Fechtin', fighting. 

Feck and/efc, number, quantity. 

Fecket, an under-waistcoat. 

Feckfii*, large, brawny, stout. 

Feckless, puny, weak, silly. 

Fecklyy mostly. 

Feg, a fig. 

Fegs, faith, an exclamation. 

Feide, feud, enmity. 

Fell, keen, biting; the flesh im- 
mediately under the skin ; 
level moor. 

Felly, relentless. 

Fend, Fen, to make a shift, con- 
trive to live. 

Ferlie or ferley, to wonder, a 
wonder, a term of contempt. 



Fetch, to pull bv fits. 

Fetch't, pulled intermittently. 

Fey, strange; one marked fo* 
death, predestined. 

Fidge, to fidgit, fidgeting. 

Fidgin-fain, tickled with pleasure. 

Fient, fiend, a petty oath. 

Fien ma care, the devil may 
care. 

Fiery sound, healthy ; a brother, 
a friend. 

Fierrie, bustle, activity. 

Fissle, to make a rustling noise, to 
fidget, bustle, fuss. 

Fit, foot. 

Fittie-lan, the nearer horse of the 
hindmost pair in the plough. 

Fizz, to make a hissing noise, fuss, 
disturbance. 

Flaffen, the motion of rags in the 
wind ; of wings. 

Flainen, flannel. 

Flandrekins, foreign generals, sol- 
diers of Flanders. 

Flang, threw with violence. 

F leech, to supplicate in a flatter- 
ing manner. 

Fleechin, supplicating. 

Fleesh, a fleece. 

Fleg, a kick, a random blow, a 
fight. 

Flether, to decoy by fair words. 

Flethrin, fethers, flattering — 
smooth wheedling words. 

Fley, to scare, to frighten. 

Flichter, fiichiering, to flutter as 
young nestlings do when their 
dam approaches. 

Flinders, shreds, broken pieces. 

Flingin-tree, a piece of timber 
hung by way of partition be- 
tween two horses in a stable ; 
a flail. 

Flisk, flisky, to fret at the yoke. 

Flisket, fretted. 

Flitter, to vibrate like the wings 
of small birds. 

Flittering, fluttering, vibrating, 
moving tremulously from 
place to place. 

Flunkie, a servant in livery. 

Flyte, flyting, scold ; flyting, 
scolding. 

Foor, hastened. 

Foord, a ford. 

Forbears, forefathers. 

Forbye, besides. 

Forfairn, distressed, worn out, 
jaded, forlorn, destitute. 

Forgather, to meet, to encounter 
with. 

Forgie, to forgive. 

Forinawed, worn out. 

Forjesket, jaded with fatigue. 

Foil*, full, drunk. 

Foughten, forfoughten, troubled, 
fatigued. 

Foul-thief, the devil, the arch- 
fiend. 
Fouth, plenty, enough, or more 
than enough. 



GLOSSARY. 



Fffiv, n measure, a busnel : also a 

pitchfork. 
Frac, from. 
Freath, froth, the frothing of ale 

in the tankard. 
Frierf, friend. 
Frosty-calker, the heels and front 

of a horse-shoe, turned sharp. 

ly up for riding on an icy 

road. 
Fu\ full. 
Fud, the scut or tail of the hare, 

coney, &.c. 
Fuff, to blow intermittently. 
Fu-hant, full-handed ; said of one 

well to live in the world. 
Fannie, full of merriment. 
Fur-ahin, the hindmost horse on 

the right hand when plough- 
ing. 
Furder, further, succeed. 
Furm, a form, a bench. 
Fusionless, spiritless, without sap 

or soul. 
Fyke, trifling cares, to be in a fuss 

about trifles. 
Fyle, to soil, to dirty. 
Fait, soiled, dirtied. 

G. 

Gab, the mouth, to spea'k boldly 

or pertly. 
Gaberlunzie, wallet-man, or tinker. 
Gae, to go; gaed, went; pane or 

gaen, gone; gaun, going. 
Gaet or gate, way, manner, road. 
Gairs, parts of a lady's gown. 
Gang, to go, to walk. 
Gangrel, a wandering person. 
Gar, to make, to force to; gar't, 

forced to. 
Garten, a garter. 
Gash, wise, sagacious, talkative, 

to converse. 
Gatty, failing in body. 
Gaucy, jolly, large, plump. 
Gaud and gad, a rod or goad. 
Guudsman, one who drives the 

horses at the plough. 
Gaun, going. 

Gaunted, yawned, longed. 
Gawkie, a thoughtless person, and 

something weak. 
Gay lies, gy lie, pretty well. 
Gear, riches, goods of any kind. 
Geek, to toss the head in wanton- 
ness or scorn. 
Ged, a pike. 
Gentles, great folks. 
Genty, elegant. 

Geordie, George, a guinea, called 
Geordie from the head of 
King George. 
Get unAgeat, a child, a young one. 
Ghaist, ghaistis, a ghost. 
Gie, to give; gied, gave; gien, 

given. 
G if tie, diminutive of gift. 
Giglets, laughing maidens. 
Gillie, gillock, diminutive of gill. 



Gilpey, ;i half-grown, half-inform 

I'd boy or girl, ;i romping lad, 
a hoyden. 
Gimmev, an ewe two years old, a 
contemptuous term for a wo- 
man. 
Gin, if, against. 
Gipsey, a young girl. 
(iirdlr, a round iron plate on 

which oat-cake is Bred. 
Girn, to grin, to twi 

in rage, agony, &C. ; grin- 
ning. 
Gizz, a periwig, the face. 
Glaikit, inattentive, foolish. 
Glaive, a sword. 
Gluizie, glittering, smooth, like 

glass. 
Glaumed, grasped, snatched at ea- 
gerly. 
Girran, a poutherie girran, a little 
vigorous animal ; a horse ra- 
ther old, but yet active when 
heated. 
Gled, a hawk. 
Gleg, sharp, ready. 
Gley, a squint, to squint ; a-gley, 

off at a side, wrong. 
Gleyde, an old horse. 
Glib-guhbit, that speaks smoothly 

and readily 
Glieb o' lun\ a portion of ground. 
The ground belonging to a 
manse is called " the glieb/' 
or portion. 
Glint, glintin*, to peep. 
Glinted by, went brightly past. 
Gloamin, the twilight 
Gloarnin-shot, twilight-musing ; a 

shot in the twilight. 
Glowr, to stare, to look ; a stare, 

a look. 
Glowr an, amazed, looking suspi- 
ciously, gazing. 
Glum, displeased. 
Gor-cocks, the red-game, red-cock, 

or moor-cock. 
Gowan, the flower of the daisy, 

dandelion, hawk weed. &C. 
Goicany, covered with daisies. 
Goavan, walking as if blind, or 

without an aim. 
Goivd, gold. 
GowL to howl. 

Gowff, a fool ; the game of golf, 
to strike, as the bat does the 
ball at golf. 
Gowk, term of contempt, the 

cuckoo. 
Grane or grain, a groan, to groan • 

graining, groaning. 
Graip, a pronged instrument for 

cleaning cowhouses. 
Graith, accoutrements, furniture, 

dress. 
Grannie, grandmother. 
Grape, to grope ; grapet, groped. 
Great, grit, intimate, familiar. 
Gree, to agree ; to bear the gree, to 
be decidedly victor; gree**, 
agreed. 



C. rrr a -gruff \ green g 
Gruesome, loatheomi Ijr, grim. 
Greetf • 

greetin', ire . 

l;-*/uill, | (jmll unfit fin 
a pen. 

G 

Gnpjdt, 

. drink fot the cum- 
;-in. 

•o get the whistle of onc'i 
grosi ; to play .t losing game, 
to t' (l the oonseq 

one's folly. 

■ gooseberry. 

Grumph, a grunt, to grunt. 
Gruntphie i Grumphin, a tow ; the 

snorting of an angry pig. 
Grmi\ ground. 
C,i > u iu,t,>;,e, <i •- 
Gruiitlr, the phiz, the snout, a 

grunting noise. 

Giuif.ir, a mouth which pokes 

out like that of a pig. 
Gruslue, thick, of thriving g| 
Gude, guiil, guids, the Nupreme 

Beil g, good, goods. 
Gude arild-has-beetif irus 01 

cellent. 
(',tiid.mo)nin\ good-morrow. 
Guid-e'en, good evening. 
Quidfather and gutdmotner, f.i'hcr- 

in-law, and mother-in-law. 
Guidman and guidv 

and mistress of the 

young guidma . 

married. 
Gully or Gullie, a large knife. 
(riilnivrige, joyous mischief. 
Gii ui lie, muddy. 
Gumption, discernment, knoir. 

ledge, talent. 
Gusty, guttfu', I 

Idler. 
Gulcher, grandsire. 

H. 
//;', hall, 
//a' B 

in the halL 
Haddin\ house, home, dwelling- 
place :. 
Hae, to have, to accept. 
Haen, had (the participle of nae; ; 

haven. 
Huet, fieni haet, a pc"y oath of 

negation ; r 
Haffet, the temple, the side of the 

head. 
Hajflinf, nearly half, partly, not 

fully grown. 
Hug, a gulf in mosses and ; 

i -ound. 
Hag* is, a kind of pi: 

in the stomach of a 

sheep. 
Hat*, 10 ?pare, to save, to lay out 

at interest. 
Hain'd, snared ; fcatVd gc^, 

hoarded money. 



GLOSSARY. 



Hairst, harvest. 

Haith, a petty oath. 

Haiters, nonsense, speaking with- 
out thought. 

Hal/, or hald, an abiding place. 

Hate, or haill, whole, tight, heal- 
thy. 

Hallan, a particular partition-wall 
in a cottage, or more pro- 
perly a seat of turf at the 
outside. 

Hallowmass, Hallow-eve, 31st Oc- 
tober. 

Haly, holy; " haly-pool," holy 
well with healing qualities. 

Ha me, home. 

Hammered, the noise of feet like 
the din of hammers. 

Han's breed, hand's breadth. 

Hanks, thread as it comes from 
the measuring reel, quantities, 
&c. 

Hansel-throne, throne when first 
- occupied by a king. 

Hap, an outer garment, mantle, 
plaid, &.C. ; to wrap, to cover, 
to hap. 

Harigals, heart, liver, and lights 
of an animal. 

Hap-shackled, when a fore and 
hind foot of a ram are fastened 
together to prevent leaping, 
he is said to be hap-shackled. 
A wife is called " the kirk's 
hap-shackle." 

Happer, a hopper, the hopper of 
a mill. 

Happing, hopping. 

Hajj-step-an'-toup, hop, step, and 
leap. 

Harkit, hearkened. 

Ham, a very coarse linen. 

Hash, a fellow who knows not 
how to act with propriety. 

Hastit, hastened. 

Haud, to hold. 

Haughs, low-lying, rich land, 
valleys. 

Haurl, to drag, to pull violently. 

Haurlin, tearing off, pulling 
roughly. 

Haver-meal, oatmeal. 

Haveril, a half-witted person, 
half-witted, one who habitu- 
ally talks in a foolish or in- 
coherent manner. 

Havins, good manners, decorum, 
good sense. 

Hankie, a cow, properly one with 
a white face. 

Heapit, heaped. 

Heat some, healthful, wholesome. 

Hearse, hoarse. 

Ilea titer, heath. 

Hech, oh strange ! an exclamation 
during heavy work. 

Hecht, promised, to foretell some- 
thing that is to be got or 
given, foretold, the thing 
foretold, offered. 

Heckle, a board in which arc fixed 



a number of sharp steel 
prongs upright for dressing 
hemp, flax, &c. 

Hee balou, words used to soothe a 
child. 

Heels-owre-gowdie, topsy-turvy, 
turned the bottom upwards. 

Heeze, to elevate, to rise, to lift. 

Hellim, the rudder or helm. 

Herd, to tend flocks, one who 
tends flocks. 

Ilerrin', a herring. 

Herry, to plunder; most properly 
to plunder birds' nests. 

Htrryment, plundering, devasta- 
tion. 

Hersel-hirsel, a flock of sheep, 
also a herd of cattle of any 
sort. 

Het, hot, heated. 

Heugh, a crag, a ravine; coal- 
heugh, a coal-pit ; lowin 
heugh, a blazing pit. 

Hilch, hiiclun'', to halt, halting. 

Hiney, honey. 

Hing, to hang. 

Hirple, to walk crazily, to walk 
lamely, to creep. 

Histie, dry, chapt, barren. 

Hitcht, a loop, made a knot. 

Hhzie, huzzy, a young girl. 

Hoddin, the motion of a husband- 
man riding on a cart-horse, 
humble. 

Hoddin-gray, woollen cloth of a 
coarse quality, made by min- 
gling one black fleece with a 
dozen white ones. 

Hoggie, a two-year-old sheep. 

Hog-score, a distance line in curl- 
ing drawn across the rink. 
When a stone fails to cross 
it, a cry is raised of " A hog, 
a hog !" and it is removed. 

Hog-shouther, a kind of horse-play 
by justling with the shou- 
ther ; to justle. 

Hoodie-craw, a blood crow, corbie. 

Hool, outer skin or case, a nutshell, 
pea-husk. 

Hoolie, slowly, leisurely. 

Hoord, a hoard, to hoard. 

Hoordit, hoarded. 

Horn, a spoon made of horn. 

Hornie, one of the many names 
of the devil. 

Host ? or haast, to cough. 

Hostin, coughing. 

Hotcli'd, turned topsy-turvy, 
blended, ruined, moved. 

Houghmagandie, loose behaviouT. 

Howlet, an owl. 

Housie, diminutive of house. 

Hove, hoved, to heave, to swell. 

Howdie, a midwife. 

Howe, hollow, a hollow or dell. 

Howebachit, sunk in the back, 
spoken of a horse. 

Hoicff, a house of resort. 

Howk, to dig. 

Howkitj digged. 



Hovokin', digging deep. 
Hoy, hoy't, to urge, urged. 
Hoyse, a pull upwards. " Hoyse a 

creel, "to raise a basket ; henc« 

" hoisting creels." 
Hoyte, to amble crazily. 
Hughoc, diminutive of Hughie, as 

Hughie is of Hugh. 
Hums and hankers, mumbles and 

seeks to do what he cannot 

perform. 
Hunkers, kneeling and falling 

back on the hams. 
Hurclieon, a hedgehog. 
Hurdles, the loins, the crupper. 
Hushion, a cushion, also a stock- 
ing wanting the foot. 
Huchyalled, to move with a hilch. 

I. 

Icker, an ear of corn. 
Ieroe, a great grandchild. 
Ilk, or ilka, each, every. 
Ill-deedie, mschievous. 
Ill-willie, ill-natured, malicious, 

niggardly. 
Ingine, genius, ingenuity. 
Ingle, fire, fireplace. 
Ingle-low, light from the fire, 

flame from the hearth. 
I rede ye, I advise ye, I warn ye. 
Pse, I shall or wilL 
Ither, other, one another. 

J. 

Jad, jade ; also a familiar term 

among country folks for a 

giddy young girl. 
Jauk, to dally, to trifle. 
Jaukin', trifling, dallying. 
Jauner, talking, and not always 

to the purpose. 
Jaup, a jerk of water; to jerk, as 

agitated water. 
Jaw, coarse raillery, to pour out, 

to shut, to jerk as water. 
Jillet, a jilt, a giddy girl. 
Jimp, to jump, slender in the 

waist, handsome. 
Jink, to dodge, to turn a corner ; 

a sudden turning, a corner. 
Jink an' diddle, moving to musio, 

motion of a fiddler's elbow. 

Starting here and there with 

a tremulous movement. 
Jinker, that turns quickly, a gay 

sprightly girl. 
Jinkin' 3 dodging, the quick mo- 
tion of the bow on the fiddle. 
Jirt, a jerk, the emission of water, 

to squirt. 
Jocteleg, a kind of knife. 
Jouk, to stoop, to bow the head, 

to conceal. 
Jow, tojow r a verb, which includes 

both the swinging motion and 

pealing sound of a large bell ; 

also the undulation of water. 
Junr'ie. to justle, a push with the 

elbow. 



GLOSSARY 



K. 

Kac, a daw. 

Kail, colewort, a kind of broth. 
Kailrunt. the stem of colewort. 
Kai?i, fowls, &c. paid as rent by a 

farmer. 
Keburs, rafters. 
Kebtuck, a cheese. 
Keckle, joyous cry ; to cackle as a 

hen. 
Keek, a keek, to peep. 
Kelpies, a sort of mischievous wa- 
ter-spirit, said to haunt fords 
and ferries at night, especially 
in storms. 
Ken, to know ; ken'd or ken't, knew. 
Kennin, a small matter. 
Ket-Ketty, matted, a fleece of 

wool. 
Kiaughtj carking, anxiety, to be 

in a flutter, 
Kilt, to truss up the clothes. 
Kimmer, a young girl, a gossip. 
Kin', kindred. 
Kin\ kind. 
King' tt-hood, a certain part of the 

entrails of an ox. 
Kintra, kintrie, country. 
Kirn, the harvest supper, a churn. 
Kirsen, to christen, to baptize. 
Kiat, chest, a shop-counter. 
Kitchen, anything that eats with 
bread, to serve for soup, 
gravy. 
Kittle, to tickle, ticklish, 
Kittling, a young cat. The ace 
of diamonds is called among 
rustics the kittlin's ee. 
Knaggie, like knags, or point6 of 

rocks. 
Knappin -hammer, a hammer for 
breaking stones ; knap, to 
strike or break. 
Knurlin, crooked but strong, 

knotty. 
Knowe, a small round hillock, a 

knoll. 
Kuittle, to cuddle ; kuitlin, cud- 
dling, fondling. 
Kye, cows. 

Kyle, a district in Ayrshire. 
'yte, the belly. 

~ythe, to discover, to show one's 
self. 

L. 

^abour, thrash. 

Laddie, diminutive of lad. 

Laggen, the angle between the 
side and the bottom of a 
wooden dish. 

Laigh, low. 

Lairing, lairie, wading, and sink- 
ing in snow, mud, &c.,miry. 

Lailh, loath, impure. 

Laithfu\ bashful, sheepish, ab- 
stemious. 

Lallans, Scottish dialect, Low- 
lands. 

Lamoie, diminutive of lamb. 

Lammas moon, harves f moon. 



Lampit, a kind of shell-fish, a 

limpet. 
Lan', land, estate. 
Lan*-afore, foremost horse in the 

plough. 
Lan'-ahin, hindmost horse in the 

plough. 
Lane, lone ; my lane, thy Line, &.C., 

myself alone. 
Lanely, lonely. 
Lang, long ; to think lang, to long, 

to weary. 
Lap, did leap. 

Late and air, late and early. 
Lave, the rest, the remainder, the 

others. 
Laverock, the lark. 
Latvian , lowland. 
Lay my dead, attribute my 

death. 
Leal, loyal, true, faithful. 
Lear, learning, lore, 
Lee-lang, live-long. 
Leesome lute, happy, gladsome 

love. 
Leeze me, a phrase of congratula- 
tory endearment; I am happy 
in thee or proud of thee. 
Leister, a three-pronged and barb- 
ed dart for striking fish. 
Leugh, did laugh. 
Leak, a look, to look. 
Libbet, castrated. 
Lick, ticket, beat, thrashen. 
Lift, sky, firmament. 
Lightly, sneeringly, to sneer at, to 

undervalue. 
Lilt, a ballad, a tune, to sing. 
Limmer, a kept mistress, a strum- 
pet. 
Limp't, limped, hobbled. 
Link, to trip along ; linkin, trip- 
ping along. 
Linn, a waterfall, a cascade. 
Lint, flax; Lint V the bell, flax in 

flower. 
Lint-white, a linnet, flaxen. 
Loan, the place of milking. 
Loaning, lane. 
Loof, the palm of the hand. 
Loot, did let. 
Looves, the plural of loof. 
Lcsh man ! rustic exclamation 

modified from Lord man. 
Loun, a fellow, a ragamuffin, a 

woman of easy virtue. 
Loup, leap, startled with pain. 
Louper-like, lan-louper, a stranger 

of a suspected character. 
Iaowe, a flame. 
Lowin' > flaming; lowin-drouth, 

burning desire for drink. 
Lowrie, abbreviation of Lawrence. 
Lsowse, to loose. 
Lowsed, unbound, loosed. 
Lug, the ear. 

Lug of the lau\ at the judgment- 
seat. 
Lugget, having a handle. 
Luggie, a small wooden dish, with 
a handle. 



hum, the chimney; lum-heaii, 

chimney-top. 
Lunch, a large piece of checH', 

flesh, &c. 
Lunt, a column of smoke, tosmoke, 

to walk quickly. 
Lyart, of a mixed colour, gray 

M. 

Mae and mair, more. 

USaggofs-meat, food for the worun. 

Mahoun, Satan. 

Mai ten, a farm. 

Maitt, most, almost. 

Mautly, mostly, for the greater 

part. 
Muk\ to make; makin 9 , making. 
Mull y, Molly, Mary. 
Mavg, among. 

Manse, the house of the parish 
minister is called M the 
Manse." 
Manteele, a mantle. 
Murk, marks. This and several 
other nouns which in Eng- 
lish require an a to form the 
plural, are in Scotch, like the 
words sheep, deer, the same 
in both numbers. 
Mark, merk, a Scottish coin, value 
thirteen shillings and four- 
pence. 
Marled, party-coloured. 
Mar's year, the year 1715. Call- 
ed Mar's year from the rebel- 
lion of Erskine, Larl of 
Mar. 
Martial chuck, the soldier's camp- 
comrade, female companion. 
Mash turn, mixed corn. 
Mask, to mash, as malt, &c, to in- 
fuse. 
Maskin-pat, teapot. 
Ma akin, a hare. 
Maun, mauna, must, must net. 
Maut, malt. 
Mavis, the thrush. 
Maw, to mow. 
Mawin, mowing ; maun, mowed 

muw'd, mowed. 
Mown, a small basket, without a 

handle. 
Meere, a mare. 
Melanchotious, mournful. 
Melder, a load of corn, &c. sent to 

the mill to be ground. 
Mell, to be intimate, to meddle; 
also a mallet for pounding 
barley in a stone trough. 
Melvie, to soil with meal. 
Men'', to mend. 

Mense, good manners, decorum. 
IUe»se/e*i,ill-bred, rude, impudent. 
Merle, the blackbird. 
Messiu, a small dog. 
Middin, a dunghill. 
Middin-creels, dung-baskets, pan- 
niers in which horses carry 
manure. 
Middin-hole, a gutter at the bot- 
tom of a dunghill. 



GLOSSARY. 



HiOih^shieli a place where cows 
or ewes are brought to be 
milked. 
Man, prim, affectedly meek. 

Mim-moiCd, gentle-mouthed. 

M in', to remember. 

Minmcae, minuet 

Mind't, mind it, resolved, intend- 
ing, remembered. 

Minnie, mother, dam. 

Mirk, dark. 

Misca\ to abuse, to call names; 
misca'd, abused. 

Mischanter, accident. 

IU«/eu?Y/,mischievous,unmannerly. 

Misteuk, mistook. 

Mither, mother. 

Mixtie-maxtie, confusedly mixed, 
mish-mash. 

Moistify, moistijied, to moisten, to 
soak ; moistened, soaked. 

Mons-meg, a large piece of ord- 
nance, to be seen at the Castle 
of Edinburgh, composed of 
iron bars welded together 
and then hooped. 

Moots, earth. 

Mony, or monie, many. 

Mnop, to nibble as a sheep. 

Moor tan, of or belonging to moors. 

Morn, the next day, to-morrow. 

Mou, the mouth. 

Moudhoort, a mole. 

Mousie, diminutive of mouse. 

Muckle, or mickte, great, big, 
much. 

Muses-siank, muses-rill, a stank, 
slow-flowing water. 

Musie, diminutive of muse. 

Mu&lin-kail, broth, composed sim- 
pl.y of water, shelled barley, 
and greens ; thin poor broth. 

Mutch kin, an English pint. 

Mi/set, myself. 



N. 
AV, no, not, nor. 
Nae, or na, no, not any. 
Naething, or naithing, nothing. 
Naig, a horse, a nag. 
Nam, none. 
Nappy, ale, to be tipsy 
Negleckitj neglected. 
Neebor, a neighbour. 
Neuk, nook. 
Niest, next. 
Niece, nief, the fist. 
Nievefu\ handful. 
Niffer, an exchange, to barter. 
Niger, a negro. 

Niue-taitedcut, a hangman's whip. 
Nit, a nut. 
Norland, of or belonging to the 

north. 
Notic't, noticed. 
Nowte, black cattle. 



0\ of. 

O'er gang, overbear ingn ess, to treat 



with indignity, literally tc 
tread. 

Overlay, an upper cravat. 

Ony, or onie, any. 

Or, is often used for ere, before. 

Orra-duddies, superfluous rags, 
old clothes. 

0% of it. 

Ourie, drooping, shivering. 

Oursel, oursels, ourselves. 

Outters, outliers ; cattle unhoused. 

Ower, owre, over. 

Owre-hip, striking with a fore- 
hammer by bringing it with 
a swing over the hip. 

Owsen, oxen. 

Oxtered, carried or supported un- 
der the arm. 

P. 

Pack, intim-ate, familiar: twelve 

stone of wool. 
Paidle, paidlen, to walk with dif- 
ficulty, as if in water. 
Painch, paunch. 
Paitrick, a partridge. 
Pang, to cram. 
Parle, courtship. 
Parishen, parish. 
Parritch, oatmeal pudding, a 

well-known Scotch drink. 
Pat, did put, a pot. 
Rattle, or pettle, a small spade to 

clean the plough. 
Paughty, proud, haughty. 
Pauky, cunning, sly. 
Pay't, paid, beat. 
Peat-reek, the smoke of burning 

turf, a bitter exhalation, 

whisky. 
Pech, to fetch the breath shortly, 

as in an asthma. 
Pechan, the crop, the stomach. 
Pechin, respiring with difficulty. 
Pennie, riches. 
Pet, a domesticated sheep, &.c, a 

favourite. 
Pettle, to cherish. 
Philabeg, the kilt. 
Phraise, fair speeches, flattery to 

flatter. 
Phraisin, flattering. 
Pibroch, a martial air. 
Pickle, a small quimtity, one grain 

of corn. 
Pigmy-scraper, little fiddler; a 

term of contempt for a bad 

player. 
Pint-stoup, a two-quart measure. 
Pine, pain, uneasiness. 
Pingle, a small pan for warming 

children's sops. 
Plack, an old Scotch coin, the 

third part of an Eglish penny. 
Plackless, pennyless, without mo- 
ney. 
Plaidie, diminutive of plaid. 
Platte, diminutive of plate. 
Plew, or pleugh, a plough. 
Piiskie, a trick. 
Plumrose, primrose. 



Pock, a mea'i-bag. 

Poind, to seize on cattle, or ta>R 
the goods as the laws of Scot- 
land allow, for rent, &c. 

Poorteth, poverty. 

Posie, a nosegay, a garland. 

Pou, poud, to pull, pulled. 

Pouk, to pluck. 

Poussie, a hare or cat. 

Pouse, to pluck with the hand. 

Pont, a polt, a chick. 

Pout, did pull. 

Poutherey, fiery, active. 

P outlier y, like powder. 

Pow, the head, the skull. 

Pownie, a little horse, a pony. 

Powther, or pouther, gunpowder 

Preclair, supereminent. 

Preen, a pin. 

Prent, printing, print. 

Prie, to taste ; pried, tasted. 

Prief, proof. 

Prig, to cheapen, to dispute ; prig- 
gin, cheapening. 

Primsie, demure, precise. 

Propone, to lay down, to propose. 

Pund, pund o' tow, pound, pound 
weight of the refuse of fiax. 

Pyet, a magpie. 

Pyle, a pyle,o'caff, a single grain 
of chaff. 

Pystle, epistle. 

Q. 

Quat, quit. 

Quak, quack the cry of a duck. 

Quech, a dnnking-cup made of 

wood with two handles. 
Quey, a cow from one to two years 

old, a heifer. 
Quines, queans. 
Quakin, quaking. 

R. 

Ragweed, herb-ragwort. 

Raible, to iattle, nonsense. 

R.air, to roar. 

Raize, to madden, to inflame. 

Ramfeezled, fatigued, overpower- 
ed. 

R ampin , raging. 

Ramstam, thoughtless, forward. 

Randie, a scolding sturdy beggar. 
a shrew. 

Rantin\ joyous. 

Raploch, properly a coarse cloth, 
but used for coarse. 

Rarely, excellently, very well. 

Rash, a rush ; rash-buss, a bush of 
rushes. 

Rattan, a rat. 

Paucle, rash, stout, fearless, reck- 
less. 

Raught, reached. 

Raw, a row. 

Rax, to stretch. 

Ream, cream, to cream. 

Reamin'', brimful, frothing. 

Reave, take by force. 

Rebate, to repulse, rebuko 



Reck, to heed. 

Rede, counsel, to counsel, to dis- 
course. 

■ied-peats, burning turfs. 

Red-wat-shod, walking in bl«od 
over the shoe-tops. 

Red-wud, stark mad. 

Roe, half drunk, fuddled; a ree 
yaud, a wild horse. 

Reek, smoke. 

Reekin*, smoking. 

Reekit, smoked, smoky. 

Reestit, stood restive ; stunted, 
withered. 

Remead, remedy. 

Requite, requited. 

Restricted, restricted. 

R w, to smile, look affectionately, 
tenderly. 

Ricktes, shocks of corn, stooks. 

Riddle, instrument for purifying 
corn. 

Rief-randies, men who take the 
property of others, accompa- 
nied by violence and rude 
words. 

Rig, a ridge. 

Rill, to run, to melt; rinnin % 9 
running. 

Rink, the course of the stones, a 
term in curling on ice. 

Rip,a. handful of unthreshed corn. 

Ripples, pains in the back and 
loins, sounds which usher in 
death. 

Ripplin-kame, instrument for dress- 
ing flax. 

Riskit, a noise like the tearing of 
roots. 

Rockin*, a denomination for a 
friendly visit. In former 
times young women met with 
their distaffs during the win- 
ter evenings, to sing, and spin, 
and be merry ; these were 
called iS rockings." 

Roke, distaff. 

Rood, stands likewise for the plu- 
ral, roods. 

Roun, a shred, the selvage of wool- 
len cloth. 

Roose, to praise, to commend. 

Roun*, round, in the circle of 
neighbourhood. 

Roupet, hoarse, as with a cold. 

Row, to roll, to rap, to roll as wa- 
ter. 

Row't, rolled, wrapped. 

Rowle, to low, to bellow. 

Rowth, plenty. 

Rowtin', lowing. 

Rozet, rosin. 

Rumble -gumption, rough common- 
sense. 

Run-deils, downright devils. 

Rung, a cudgel. 

Runty the stem of colewort or cab- 
bage. 

Rankled, wrinkled. 

Ruth, a woman's name, the book 
eo called, sorrow. 



Ryke, reach. 



S. 



Sue, so. 

Soft, soft. 

Suir, to serve, a sore ; same, sor- 
rowful. 

Sairly, sorely. 

Sair't, served. 

Sark, a shirt. 

Sarkit, provided in shirts. 

Saugh, willow. 

Saugh-woodies, withies, made of 
willows, now supplanted by 
ropes and chains. 

Saul, soul. 

Saumont, salmon. 

Saunt, sauntet, saint; to vanish. 

Saut, salt. 

Saw, to sow. 

Sawhi', sowing. 

Sax, six. 

Scaud, to scald. 

Scauld, to scold. 

Scaur, apt to be scared ; a preci- 
pitous bank of earth which 
the stream has washed red. 

Scawl, a scold. 

Scone, a kind of bread. 

Sconner, a loathing, to loath. 

Scraich and Scriegh, to scream, as 
a hen or partridge. 

Screed, to tear, a rent ; screeding, 
tearing. 

Scrieve, scrieven, to glide softly, 
gleesomely along. 

Scrimp, to scant. 

Scrimpet, scant, scanty. 

Scroggie, covered with underwood, 
bushy. 

Sculdudrey, fornication. 

Seizin'', seizing. 

Sel\ self; a body's seV, one's self 
alone. 

Sell% did sell. 

Sen'', to send. 

Servan\ servant. 

Settlin, settling; to get a settling 
to be frighted into quietness. 

Sets, sets off, goes away. 

Shachlet-Jeet, ill-shaped. 

Shair'd, a shred, a shard. 

Shangan, a stick cleft at one end 
for pulling the tail of a dog, 
&c. by way of mischief, or to 
frighten him away. 

Shank-it, walk it; shanks, legs. 

Shaul, shallow. 

Shaver, a humorous wag, a barber 

Shavie, to do an ill turn. 

Shaw, tu show ; a small wood in a 
hollow place. 

Sheep-shank, to thinkoire"s self nae 
sheep-shank, to be conceited. 

Sherra-muir, Sherriff-Muir, the fa- 
mous battle of, l71o, 

Sheugh, a ditch, a trencii, a sluice. 

Shiel-shealing, a shepherd'scottage. 

Skill, shrill. 

Shog, a shock, a push off at one 
side. 



Shoo, ill to please, ill to fit 

Shoot, a shovel. 

Shoon, shoes. 

Shore, to offer, to threaten. 

Shard half offered and threatened. 

Shoutlier, the shoulder. 

Shot, one traverse of the shuttle 
from side to side of the web. 

Sic, such. 

Sicker, sure, steady. 

Sidelins, sideling, slanting. 

Silken-snood, a fillet of silk, a to- 
ken of virginity. 

Siller, silver, money, white. 

Simmer, summer. 

Sin, a son. 

Stnsyne, since then. 

Skoitli, to damage, to injure, in- 
jury. 

Skeigh, proud, nice, saucy, met- 
tled. 

Skeigh, shy, maiden coyness. 

Skellum, a noisy reckless fellow. 

Skelp, to strike, to slap ; to walk 
with a smart tripping step, a 
smart stroke. 

Skelpi-limmer, a technical term ir. 
female scolding. 

Skelpin, skelpit, striking, walking 
rapidly, literally striking the 
ground. 

Skinklin, thin, gauzy, scaltery. 

Skirling, shrieking, crying. 

Skirl, to cry, to shriek shrilly. 

SkirPt, shrieked. 

Sklent, slant, to run aslant, to de- 
viate from truth. 

Sklented, ran, or hit, in an oblique 
direction. 

Skouth, vent, free action. 

Skreigh, a scream, to scream, the 
first cry uttered by a child. 

Skyte, a worthless fellow," to sliuc 
rapidly off. 

Skyrin, party-coloured, the checks 
of the tartan. 

Slae, sloe. 

Slade, did slide. 

Slap, a gate, a breach in a fence. 

Slaw, slow. 

Slee, sleest, sly, slyest. 

Sleekit, sleek, sly. 

Sliddery, slippery. 

Slip-shod, smooth shod. 

Sloken, quench, slake. 

Slype, to fall over, as a wet furrow 
from the plough. 

Slypet-o'er, fell over with a slow 
reluctant motion. 

Smu"*, small. 

Smeddum, dust, powder, mettle, 
sense, S3gacity. 

Smiddy, smithy. 

Smirking, good-natured, winking. 

Smoor, smeared, to smother, smo- 
thered. 

Smoune, smutty, obscene; vnoutii 
phiz, sooty asnect. 

Smytrie, a numerous collection of 
small individuals. 

Sh.ipper, mistake. 



GLOSSARY. 



Snuslu abuse, Billingsgate, imper- 
tinence. 
tftiaw, snow, to snow. 
Suuw-broo, melted snow. 
Snawie, snowy. 
Snad, to lop, to cutoff. 
Sited-besoms, to cut brocms, 
Suceshin, snuff. 
Siieeshin-mill, a snuff-box. 
Snelt and snelly, bitter, biting ; 

snetlest, bitterest. 
Snick-druwing, trick, contriving. 
Stiick, the latchet of a door. 
Snot, snirtle, concealed laughter, 

to breathe the nostrils in a 

displeased manner. 
Snool, one whose spirit is broken 

with oppressive slavery; to 

submit tamely, to sneak. 
Snoove, to go smoothly and con- 
stantly, to sneak. 
Suowk, snoivkit, to scent or snuff 

as a dog, scented, snuffed. 
Sodger, a soldier. 
Sonde, having sweet engaging 

looks, lucky, jolly. 
boom, to swim. 
Souk, to suck, to drink long and 

enduringly. 
Souple, flexible, swift. 
Sottpled, suppled. 
S> ulher, to solder. 
Souter, a shoemaker. 
Sowens, the fine flour remaining 

among the seeds of oatmeal 

made into an agreeable pud- 
ding. 
Sowp, a spoonful, a small quantity 

of anything liquid. 
Sowth, to try over a tune with a 

low whistle. 
Si ae, to prophesy, to divine. 
Spails, thips, splinters. 
Span I, a limb. 
Svairge, to clash, to soil, as with 

mire. 
Spates, sudden floods. 
Spaviet, having the spavin. 
Sjmit, a sweeping torrent after 

rain or thaw. 
SpeeU to climb. 
Spence, the parlour of a farmhouse 

or cottage. 
Spier, to ask, to inquire; spiert, 

inquired. 
Spinnin-graith, wheel and roke 

rnd lint. 
■iplatl r, to splutter, a splutter. 
Spleughan, a tobacco-pouch. 
Splore, a frolic , noise, riot. 
Spi tch ted, scrambled. 
> v p \ttle, to scramble. 
Sp. ckted, spotted, speckled. 
Sprang, a quick air in music, a 

Scottish reel. 
Sprit, spret, a tough-rooted plant 

somethinglike rushes, joint ed- 

leaved rush. 
Sp rutin, full of spirits. 
Spunk, fire, mettle, wit, spark. 
Spun Lie, mettlesome, fiery ; will 



o' the wisp, or ignis fatuus ; 
the devil. 

Spurtte, a stick used in making 
oatmeal pudding or porridge, 
notable Scottish dish. 

Squad, a crew or party, a squad- 
ron. 

Squatter, to flutter in water, as a 
wild-duck, &.c. 

Squatile, to sprawl in the act of 
hiding. 

Squeel, a jCieam, a screech, to 
scream. 

Stacker, to stagger. 

Stack, a rick of corn, hay, peats. 

Staggie, a stag. 

Staig, a two-year-old horse. 

Stalwart, stately, strong., 

Stang, sting, stung. 

StanH, to stand; stant, did stand. 

Stane, a stone. 

Stank, did stink, a pool of stand- 
ing water, slow-moving water. 

Stap, stop, stave. 

Stark, stout, potent. 

Startle, to run as cattle stung by 
the gadfly. 

Staukin, stalking, walking dis- 
dainfully, walking without 
an aim. 

Staumrel, a blockhead, half-witted. 

Staw, did steal, to surfeit. 

Siech, to cram the belly. 

Stechin, cramming. 

Steek, to shut, a stitch. 

Steer, to molest, to stir. 

Steeve, firm, compacted. 

Steli, a still. 

Sten, to rear as a horse, to leap 
suddenly. 

Stravagin, wandering without an 
aim. 

Stents, tribute, dues of any kind. 

Steii, steep ; sty est, steepest. 

Stibblc, stubble; stubble-rig, the 
reaper in harvest who takes 
the lead. 

Stick-ait'-stow, totally, altogether. 

Stilt-stilts, a crutch ; to limp, to 
halt; poles for crossing a 
river. 

Stimpart, the eighth part of a 
Winchester bushel. 

Stirk, a cow or bullock a year 
old. 

Stock, a plant of colewort, cab- 
bages. 

Stockiu', stocking; throiviug the 
stocking when the bride and 
bridegroom are put into bed, 
the former throws a stocking 
at random among the com- 
pany, and the person whom 
it falls on is the next that 
will be married. 

Stook, stooked, a shock of corn, 
made into shocks. 

Slot, a young bull or ox. 

Stouud, sudden pang of the 
heart. 

Stoup. or stowpt a kind of high 



narrow jug or dish with a 

handle for holding liquids. 
Stowre, dust, more particularly 

dust in motion; stowne, 

dusty. 
Stowntins, by stealth. 
Stown, stolen. 
Stnyie, the walking of a drunken 

man. 
Straek, did strike. 
Strae, straw; to die a fair strae 

death, to die in bed. 
Straik, to stroke; straiket, stroked. 
Strappen, tall, handsome, vigorous. 
Strath, low alluvial land, a holm. 
S fraught, straight. 
Streek, stretched, to stretch. 
Striddle, to straddle. 
Stroaii, to spout, to piss. 
Stroup, the spout. 
Studdie, the anvil. 
Sluwpie, diminutive of stump ; a 

grub pen. 
Strum, spirituous liquor of any 

kind ; to walk sturdily, to be 

affronted. 
Stuff, corn or pulse of any kind. 
Siurt, trouble ; to moles'. 
Startin, frighted. 
Sty me, a glimmer. 
Sucker, sugar. 
Sad, should. 
Sugli, the continued rushing noise 

of wind or water. 
Sumph, a pluckless fellow, with 

little heart or soul. 
Suthron, Southern, an old name of 

the English. 
Swaird, sword. 
SwuWd, swelled. 
Swunk, stately, jolly. 
Swankie, or swanker, a tight strap- 
ping young fellow or girl. 
Swap, an exchange,. to barter. 
Swarfed, swooned. 
Swat, did sweat. 
Swatch, a sample. 
Swats, drink, good ale, new ale or 

wort. 
Sweer, lazy, averse ; dcad-sweer, 

extremely averse. 
Swoor, swore, did swear. 
Swinge, to beat, to whip. 
Swinke, to labour hard. 
Swirlie, knaggy, full of knots. 
Swirl, a curve, an eddying blast oi 

pool, a knot in wood. 
Swith, get away. 

S wither, to hesitate in choice, an 
irresolute wavering in choice. 
Syebow, a thick-necked onion. 
Syne, since, ago, then. 

T. 

Tackets, broad-headed nails toi 

the heels of shoes. 
Tae, a toe; three-taed ; having 

*hree prongs. 
Tak, to take; takin, taking. 
Tangle, a sea-weed used a* 

salad. 



GLOSSARY, 



Tap, the top. 
Tapetless, heedless, foolish 
Targe, targe them tightly, cross- 
question them severely. 
Tarrow, to murmur at one's al- 
lowance. 
Tarry-breeks, a sailor. 
Tussle, a small measure for liquor. 
Tauld, or Uld, told. 
Taupie, a foolish, thoughtless 

young person. 
Touted, or tauiie, matted together 

(spoken of hair and wool). 
Tawie, that allows itself peaceahly 
to be handled (spoken of a 
cow, horse, &c). 
Teat, a small quantity. 
Teeth less bawtie, toothless cur. 
Teethless gab, a mouth wanting 
the teeth, an expression of 
scorn. 
Ten-hours-bite, a slight feed to 
the horse while in the yoke 
in the forenoon. 
Tint, a field pulpit, heed, caution ; 

to take heed. 
Tentie, heedful, cautious. 
Tentless, heedlei-j, careless. 
Teugh, tough. 
Thack, thatch; (hack an rape, 

clothing and necessaries. 
Thae, these. 

Thairms, small guts, fiddle-strings. 
Thankit, thanked. 
Theekit, thatched. 
Thegither, together. 
ThemseT, themselves. 
Thick, intimate, familiar. 
Thigger, crowding, make a noise ; 

a seeker of alms. 
Thir, these. 
Thirl, to thrill. 
Thirled, thrilled, vibrated. 
Thole, to suffer, to endure. 
Thowe, a thaw, to thaw. 
Thowless, slack, lazy. 
Thrang, throng, busy, a crowd. 
Thrapple, throat, windpipe. 
Thraw, to sprain, to twist, to con- 
tradict. 
Thrawiu', twisting, &c. 
Thrown, sprained, twisted, con- 
tradicted, contradiction. 
Threap, to maintain by dint of as- 
sertion. 
Threshin', threshing ; threshin'- 

tree, a flail. 
lhreteen, thirteen. 
Thristle, thistle. 
Through, to go on with, to make 

out. 
Throuther, pell-mell, confusedly 

(through-ither). 
Thrum, sound of a spinning-wheel 
in motion, the thread re- 
maining at the end of a web. 
Thud, to make a loud intermittent 

noise. 
Thumrriart, foumart, polecat. 
Thumpit, thumped. 
ThyseC, thyself. 



Till't, to it. 

Timmer, timber. 

Tine, to lose; tint, Lost. 

Tinkler, a tinker. 

Tip, a rani. 

Tippence, twopence, money. 

Tirl, to make a slight noise, to 

uncover. 
Tirlin*, tirlet, uncovering. 
Tither, the other. 
Tittle, to whisper, to prate idly. 
TilLliu, whispering. 
Tucker, marriage portion; tocher 

bands, marriage bonds. 
Tod, a fox. " Tod i' the J'au Id," 

fox in the fold. 
Toddle, to totter, like the wall, of 
a child; todlen-dow, toddling 
dove. 
foo-fa', u Too fa' o' the nicht," 
when twilight darkens into 
night; a building added, a 
lean-to. 
Toom, empty. 
Toomed, emptied. 
Toop, a ram. 
Toss, a toast. 

Tosie, warm and ruddy with 
warmth, good-looking, in- 
toxicating. 
Toun, a hamlet, a farmhouse. 
Tout, the blast of a horn or trum- 
pet, to blow a horn or trum- 
pet. 
Touzles, touzling, romping, ruf- 
fling the clothes. 
Tow, a rope. 

Towmond, a twelvemonth. 
Towzie, rough, shaggy. 
Toy, a very old fashion of female 

head-dress. 
Toyte, to totter like old age. 
Trams, burrow-trams, the handles 

of a barrow 
TransmiLgrifieJ, transmigrated, 

metamorpiioseJ. 
Trashlrie, trash rubbish. 
Trickie, full of tricks. 
Trig, spruce, neat. 
Trimly, cleverly, excellently, in a 

seemly manner. 
Trinle, trintle, the wheel of a bar- 
row, to rolJ. 
Trinklin, trickling. 
Troggers, troggin*, wandering 
merchants, goods to truck or 
dispose of. 
Trow, to believe, to tr::st to. 
Troicth, trutn, a pettj oath. 
Trysts, appointments, love meet- 
ings, cattle shows. 
Tumbler-wheels, the wheels of a 

kind of low cart. 
Tug, raw hide, of which in old 
time plough-traces were fre- 
quently made. 
Tug or tow, either in leather or 

rope. 
Tuhie, a quarrel, to quarrel, to 

fteht. 
Two, two; twa-falaL, twofold. 



Tn ,1-tln cr, a f'.'W. 

"I'u nd, it would. 

To ui, twelve ; 

a small quantity, | 

worth N.B. One ptiu.v 

I'. n/ - > eh. 

'I'un j.n.L. twofold. 

Twin, to part. 

TwistU art of rm-.k 

log a rope. 

■ dog. 
Tysday, Tumi 

r. 

Unbaetfd filly, a young I 

hitherto unsaddled. 
Unco, strange, uncouth, 

very great, prodigious. 
Uncos, • i 

Unfauld, unfold. 
I known. 

Unsicker, uncertain, wavering 

secure. 
Untkaithed, ui tnhurt 

I r po', upon. 



. vapouring. 

Vanillic, jOyOUS, delight whiCil 

cannot COntai 
Vera, very. 
Virl, a ring round a column, St6 

Vogie, vain. 

\Y. 

Wa f , wall ; u us, walls. 

Wubstt i , a weaver. 

Wad, would, to bet, a b 

pledge. 
Wad i a, would not. 
Wadset, land on which money u 

lent, a mon 
Woe, woe; waeju', sorrowful 

wailing. 
Waeju'-wooa . 
Waesucks! Wae'a nm! Alas'. O 

the pity ! 
Wa'Jlover, wall-flower. 
Waft, woof; the cross thread that 
" goes from the shuttle through 

the web. 
Waifs an' crocks, stray sheep and 

old ewes past breeding. 
Wair, to lay out, to expend. 
Wale, choice, to choose. 
Wal'd, chose, chosen. 
Ilu/if, ample, large, jollj 

an exclamation of d 
Wame, the belly. 
Wamefu', a bellyful. 
Wanchansie, unlucky. 
Wanrest, wanrestfu", restless, utv 

restfull. 
Work, work. 

Wark-lume, a tool to work witn. 
Win Id's- worm, a ni-er. 
Warle, or world, world. 
Warlock, a wizard; i 

knoue, a knoll where war- 
locks once held tryste. 



Warly, worldly, eager in amassing 
wealth. 

Warran', a warrant, to wan-ant. 

Warsle, wrestle. 

Warsld, or warsfled, wrestled. 

Wastrie, prodigality. 

Wat, wet : I wat — I wot — I know. 

Wut, a man's upper dress ; a sort 
of mantle. 

Water-brose, brose made of meal 
and water simply, without the 
addition of milk, butter, &c. 

Wattle, a twig, a wand. 

Wauble, to swing, to reel. 

Waukhi, waking, watching. 

Waukit, thickened as fullers do 
cloth. 

Waukrife, not apt to sleep. 

Waur, worse, to worst. 

Waurt, worsted. 

Wean, a child. 

Wearxj-widdle, toilsome contest of 
life. 

Weason, weasand, windpipe. 

Weaven' the stocking, to knit 
stockings. 

Weeder-dips, instrument for re- 
moving weeds. 

Wee, little ; icee things, little 
ones; wee bits, a small matter. 

Weel, well ; weelfare, welfare. 

Weet, rain, wetness ; to wet. 

We'se, we shall. 

Wha, who. 

Whaizle, to wheeze. 

VVhaipit, whelped. 

Whang, a leathern thong, a piece 
of cheese, 'bread, &c. 

Whare, where; v>hare'er, where- 
ever. 

Wheep, to fly nimbly, to jerk, 
penny-wheep, small-beer. 

Whase, wha's, whose — who is. 

What reck, nevertheless. 

Whid, the motion of a hare run- 
ning, but not frighted — a lie. 

Whidden, running as a hare or 
coney. 

Whigmel^eries, whims, fancies, 
crotchets. 



GLOSSARY. 

Whilk, which. 

Whingin', crying, complaining, 
fretting. 

Whirligigums, useless ornaments, 
trifling appendages. 

Whissle, a whistle, to whistle. 

Whisht, silence; to hold one's 
whist, to be silent. 

Whisk, zohiskct, to sweep, to 
lash. 

Whiskin' beard, a beard like the 
whiskers of a cat. 

Whiskit, lashed, the motion of a 
horse's tail removing flies. 

Whitter, a hearty draught of li- 
quor. 

Whittle, a knife. 

Whunstane, a whinstone. 

Wi', with. 

Wick, to strike a stone in an ob- 
lique direction, a term in 
curling. 

Widdifu, twisted like a withy, 
one who merits hanging. 

Wiel, a small whirlpool. 

Wijie-wifikie, a diminutive ol* 
endearing name for wife. 

Wight, stout, enduring. 

Willyart-glower, abeAvildered dis- 
mayed stare. 

Wimple-womplet, to meander, me- 
andered, to enfold. 

Wimplin', waving, meandering. 

Win', to wind, to winnow. 

Winrtin' '-thread, putting thread 
into hanks. 

Win't, winded as a bottom of 
yarn 

Win', wind. 

Win, live. 

Winna, will not. 

V/innock, a window. 

Winsome, hearty, vaunted, gay. 

Wintle, a staggering motion, to 
stagger, to reel. 

Wiss, to wish. 

Withouten, Avithout. 

Wizened, hide-bound, dried, 
shrunk. 

Winze^ a curse or imprecation. 



Wonner, a wonder, a contemp- 
tuous appellation. 

Woo', wool. 

Woo, to court, to make love tc. 

Widdie, a rope, more properly 
one of withs or willows. 

Woer-bobs, the garter knitted be- 
low the knee with a couple of 
loops. 

Wordy, worthy. 

Worset, worsted. 

Wrack, to tease, to vex. 

Wud, wild, mad; wud-mad, dis- 
tracted. 

Wumble, a wimble. 

Wraith, a spirit, a ghost, an ap- 
parition exactly like a living 
person, whose appearance is 
said to forbode the person's 
approaching death ; also 
wrath. 

Wrung, wrong, to wrong. 

Wreeth, a drifted heap of snow. 

Wyliecoat, a flannel vest. 

Wyte, blame, to blame. 

Y. 

Ye, this pronoun is frequently 
used for thou. 

Yearns, longs much. 

Yealings, born in the same year, 
coevals. 

Year, is used both for singular 
and plural, years. 

Yell, barren, that gives no milk. 

Yerk, to lash, to jerk. 

Yerket, jerked, lashed. 

Yestreen, yesternight. 

Yett, a gate. 

Yeuk's, itches. 

YiU, ale, 

Yird, yirded, earth, earthed, bu- 
ried. 

Yokin', yoking. 

Yont, ayent, beyond. 

Yirr, lively. 

Yoive, an ewe. 

Yowie, diminutive of yowe 

Yule, Christmas. 






TILE END. 



DIRECTIONS TO THE BINDER 
LIST OF PLATES. 

ly f**m f**0+ 

Portrait of Burns, to face the Vignette. 

Portrait of Allan Cunningham ... 1 

The Genius of Poesie finding Burns at the Plough, to precede the 
Dedication to the Edinburgh Edition. 

Second Epistle to Davie, a Brother Poet 4 ^ 

The Auld Farmer's Address to his Mare 6 ^ 

The Jolly Beggars 10^ 

Death and Dr. Hornbook 14 -" 

The Holy Fair 19-^ 

Halloween 28 ^ 

Man was made to mourn 30^" 

Scotch Drink .40^ 

Burns and Hamilton at Nanse Tinnock's 12 ** 

The Cotter's Saturday Night . . 48 ^ 

The Twa Dogs .... . .... 34 u ' 

Burns' Interview with Lord Daer fift ^" 

Address to the Toothache m 

The Wounded Hare Bti 

Captain Grose writing the Antiquities of Scotland . \ 

The Witches' Dance in Tam-o'Shanter 99 ^ 

Tam-o'Shanter's Flight 100^" 

Lament for James Earl of Glencairn . 104 \s 

Cfje &aiiQ* antr 38ana*tf. 

Now Westlin' Wins 136^ 

The Lass o' Ballochmylt? 144^ 

John Anderson my Jo l«u^ 

Willie brew'd a Peck o' Maut 164 ^ 

Naebody . • 1T1 

The Deil cam' fiddlin' thro' the Town 184<^ 

Highland Mary 195 \^ 

The Poor and Honest Sodger 200 

Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled .... ... 20<3 * 

Auld Lang Syne 20Gi^ 

Uns. Burns and her Granddaughter . , • . . 2JH y/ 



UBRAKY OF CONGRESS 




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